


Sarcastic Nothings

by FrecklesOfRed (WatermelonDip)



Series: When The World Is Quiet [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Canon Divergence, Comfort Reading, Diego Hargreeves is Bad at Feelings, F/M, Injury Recovery, Late Night Conversations, Light Angst, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Reader-Insert, Reading Aloud, Touch-Starved, Very very slow romance, Young, although does it really matter?, can I even call it romance?, can you smile too much?, nvm it's totally romance now, okay maybe I can it's just gonna seem pretty platonic for a while, reader is female
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 54,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26618710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatermelonDip/pseuds/FrecklesOfRed
Summary: Some people talk directly. Saying what comes to mind.Some people don't think the world is ready for that.And then some, although very few, already know it all before you can say a word.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Reader, Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy)/Reader
Series: When The World Is Quiet [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980101
Comments: 85
Kudos: 152





	1. slit my wrists and watch that blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's late , quiet, what else is there to do except read?

The hallway is quiet.

You know it's late, just like it always seems to be.

Darkness always seemed so welcoming in your eyes. It was silent, peaceful, different from the day.

During the day it was always so loud. the thoughts running around in people's heads were like screams in yours. 

People envied you. Praised you. Said you were so incredibly lucky.

Oh, how oblivious they were.

You were not lucky. And you had very little reason to be happy. But you smiled.

You smiled as you brought your hands up to the wooden door. The knock was light. Almost silent. It had to go unnoticed. It had to be inconspicuous because that was what these nights were.

A little secret shared between two people, people of equal understanding of something neither of them wanted to understand.

You waited a moment, letting your fist settle against the smooth dark wood. 

It still felt a little bruised. You hated fighting. It was annoying, tiresome eventually.

And then you heard it. The faint 'come in' you had gotten so used to hearing.

You opened the door, slowly, very slowly.

There he sat, reading, of course. Being thirteen was interesting. It was different than being a normal thirteen, for you at least. It was stressful, too much. And yet you smiled.

Five didn't smile. Five read. He would read till his eyes bled. And then he would keep reading because there was nothing else to do that was quite as relaxing.

"What are you waiting for?" The question wasn't asked softly, nor did he turn to you when saying it. It was harsh in a way, which didn't surprise you.

Five wasn't sweet. Sometimes you wondered if he could be even if he wanted to.

You slowly inched into the room, looking around at the boringness of it all. You tried to imagine what Five's room would look like if it was all his own. If he got to make it anyway his strange mind wanted to.

Probably chaos.

Definitely chaos.

"What are you reading," you questioned, inching towards the boy. Your voice was much kinder than his. You never let it falter.

There was a pause. You weren't sure if it's the fact that Five is probably finishing a sentence or the overwhelming sense that he is pissed and just doesn't want you to know about it.

"Pride and Prejudice," he answered, his features stiffening slightly as the words escape his lips.

You _almost_ laugh. 

Almost.

But his face is too annoyed for you to take any chance at crossing him.

"Interesting," is all you can muster as you make your way to his bed. You examined the way he slumped against his headboard. His back arched in what looked like the most uncomfortable way.

But there was something much more interesting about it.

You had seen many people read in your lifetime. Everyone has. But Five read differently than everyone else. He was so focused, whether it was the daily newspaper or War and Peace his eyes never left the page.

Well, almost never.

"You know," you said as you hopped onto his bed, the mattress dipping only slightly due to its hardness. "I never pegged you like the Jane Austen kind of guy.":

The bed was small, not 'I'm the maid of the house' small. But small.

Your shoulder was pressed ever so slightly against his. He used to mind this. He would move to the other side until there was at least an inch between you. But after all these years he had gotten used to it.

The closeness.

"Yeah? Well, apparently you were terribly mistaken."

You leaned over, catching a glimpse at the page number. He wasn't very far in the book, he most likely had been gawking at the fantasy of it all.

The elegance that never really existed.

Five clear his throat, fixing his posture a small bit.

"And she rose as she spoke," he started, his normal grumbling tone turning into a horrific take on a British accent. You scrunched your nose, cringing at his attempt at some friendly flare. "Lady Catherine rose also, and then turned back. Her ladyship was high incensed."

Five stopped, turning to you. He raised an eyebrow in a questioning manner. 

You weren't quite sure how to respond.

"What? Don't you like it?" He was joking. He had to be. You hated it.

Well no, you loved it. You loved the part where he let you sit next to him, he let your faces rest so close that one simple movement would press them together. And you loved that Five, the boy who never gave up smile without it being earned, just gave you his best British accent.

But you also hated it.

"I think," you let your words hang in the air, your fingers drifting to the corner of the book. "You should let me give it try."

You grabbed the piece of literature from his hands, pulling it towards you quite dramatically. 

Five huffed, trying his best to hide his obvious amusement. At the end of the day, he liked a solid few minutes of playful banter.

You scanned the words on the page, looking for where he had left off.

"You have no regard, then, for the honor and credit of my nephew!" Voices weren't your thing. Sure, your accent was better. Nevertheless, Five chuckled, swaying his body in a way that made your shoulders bump together for a moment.

You smiled.

"I think that is enough blatant butchering of the British peoples for one day," you announced giddily, slipping the bookmark that had nested in the front of the book in between the current pages.

It almost made you forget today.

Although not completely. Never completely.

You remembered it being loud. And you remembered a strange sensation in your shoulder.

It hurt. But it always hurt.

The pain was an instinct. It was guaranteed. A life without pain wasn't a life worth living.

Apparently.

And then, for some reason, the bookmark didn't make its way into the book. It slipped through your fingers, falling between you and Five without a single sound.

There was silence.

"Eight?"

_You heard them. His thoughts. The crazy rambling thoughts that went on inside his head._

_'Shit!' they shouted, screaming at you like it was your fault. 'Shit shit shit! Think Five think! Jump just jump, it isn't that hard!'_

_But the thing was that it wasn't much time. Thought were much fast than actions, and you knew he wouldn't do it._

_He wouldn't jump._

_You shut them out. The thoughts, the screams, and you ran. You were fast, not as fast as Five, Five didn't even need to run._

_But you were fast._

_And then, before anyone could stop you, you were standing in front of him._

_The world rushed by you as if it was nothing._

_Weak._

_Cold._

_Useless._

_Repetitive._

_It wasn't a direct hit. And dear god was Five happy about that._

_"Eight?"_

The sound of your name called you out, pulling you away from the past.

The past that you couldn't forget.

"Does it still hurt?" The words came out as almost a whisper.

His fingers, his normally throat squeezing gun holding fingers, brushed softly against your shoulder. The place was a bandage covered the broken parts of you.

The damaged sections of your imperfect body.

_"Eight?" It was soft, although not relaxing in any way._

_The world was fuzzy and when the fell back you didn't have much idea of what you were collapsing into._

_"Oh god, shit, really Eight?" Even though it was Five, you had expected something more. Something that had more concern in it than a few swear words and an unanswerable question._

_But you didn't see his eyes as they stared at your blood._

You hadn't expected the night to do like this. Sad. Stressful.

Did it still hurt?

Yes, yes it did. You got shot. Of course it still hurt. 

Just the brush of his fingers against the fabric of your pajamas reminded you of the unending soreness that erupted from the wound.

"No," you mumbled, scrunching your shoulders into yourself protectively.

You felt the urge to wince, to show some sign of the obvious pain you were in. 

But you didn't. 

You didn't because, no matter how much it hurt, Five wouldn't care. He couldn't care. Showing the uncomfortableness would just earn you a simple 'stop being such a wimp' and an eye roll.

That wasn't worth it right now.

"Today was rough. It's okay to be a little distraught," Five stated, attempting some kind of sweetness in his tone.

It barely showed through.

"It's fine I just-" you just what? Words always came naturally to you around Five. He was surprisingly easy to talk to for acting like a jerk all the time. "Sometimes I feel like he wouldn't mind very much if one of us died."

It was such a morbid thought. Although so was your life.

"Who?" He asked it, but he already knew the answer. He was there, he carried you into the house. He watched as your father furrowed his eyebrows, muttering the word 'idiot' repeatedly under his breath.

"You know who Five."

He nodded, his eyes drifting to his lap.

"He would care," Five grumbled, images of your eyes closed flooding through his mind. "I mean he's spent years building up your powers. He would care about that."

You tried your best not to, but you scoffed. It was a bitter noise. You didn't like hearing it come out of you.

And yet it did.

Five had never heard you scoff before. It sounded strangely vulgar coming from you, mostly since you wouldn't even say 'fuck' to a bee who had jus stung you.

"Hey," you heard Five say, a hand was hesitantly placed on your shoulder.

Touch: it was something that rarely occurred in the Hargreeves family.

"You were the first Hargreeves kid to get shot. I mean, I don't about you, but I consider that some sort of accomplishment."

It was a weak attempt and cheering you up. Both of you knew that.

You smiled.

Your head feels heavy. Its probably the tiredness. From the lateness or the wound you don't know. But it's heavy, so you let it fall onto Five's shoulder.

You know he wants to shoo you away. Tell you it's getting late and you should be getting back to your room.

But he doesn't.

You took a bullet for him today. He owes you this. At least this.

He's warm. It surprised you, even though it makes sense. Humans are living beings, they have to be warm, but you just always assumed Five was cold.

It was nice. It made you remember that he had something inside of him other than his jerk-like nature and utter rage.

"Five?" Your voice was quiet, weak in a way. It reminded him too much of the way you said his name when his hand was covered in your blood.

"Yes?"

"Can I stay here for a while?" You only expected a brief 'I don't think so.' But that's not what you got.

"Sure, just not for too long." You smiled again, the one from only a few minutes ago had started to fade. Although your happiness hadn't.

You pressed your side against his. Your shoulder hurt, but there wasn't much of a way around that. The thought that Five was next to you made it feel at least a little bit better.

He stiffened, his limbs as hard as wooden board as you pressed your body against his.

Again, touch wasn't common in the Hargreeves family.

"Relax, you said yourself that you didn't get enough sleep last night," you muttered, again reminding him of the events of the day.

He wants to yell at you. He wants to be mad. He wants to shove your shoulder and push you away, not caring about the way you would wince in pain.

But he can't. He really can't.

He can't because he was the one who had to watch you fall out of consciousness. He was the one who had a miserable pile of guilt piled on top of him like a gallons of water on his head.

He was the one who thought about what it might be like without you.

Not very different. That was what he determined. It would be virtually the same. The same painstaking daily activities, the same lackluster victories, and the same Umbrella Academy.

It was crude, he knew that. He would never plan on telling you that he didn't believe your existence changed the world in any noticeable way.

"Yeah, yeah I said that."

Five felt the non-existent ache in his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took too long but I think it's okay.
> 
> It's very hard for me to write a one-shot and not decide to make a whole story.
> 
> My will is weak.
> 
> Have a spectacular day!!!!


	2. got so much to prove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You tend to look distracted.  
> It's perceived in different ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this was just a stupid little one-shot. But you know, life sucks, and I decided to continue this.
> 
> Hope this is decent. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

You are Number Eight.

You've been told it's a title that should be taken seriously.

You refuse to do so.

You remember when Klaus snuck in an issue of X-Men into your room. It was the first time you felt normal.

But then you kept reading.

Everyone has to give in at some point. That was when you decided to stop. Stop trying. Stop attempting to make something good out of everything bad.

'Life sucks Eight. Deal with it.' That's what Five said to you. And you smiled. You smiled because lies were an insult at this point. They were a way of creating this overwhelming sense of false happiness that would just come crashing down. 

Leaving you in ruins.

Five didn't have the willpower nor patience to put you in that pain.

"White," you say, nodding your head the smallest bit. "I want white flowers at my wedding," you confirm, looking to Klaus with the biggest smile on your face.

He always wanted to cheer you up. He always wanted to cheer everyone up.

Most of the time it was dismissed as disruptive. But you listened. You sat and smiled and let him ramble on about nonsense because you wished you could do it too.

"I think I would do pink." Of course. What else but pink? Any other color and you would have seriously questioned your brother's mental health.

"Pink will suit you extremely well sir," you announce, straightening your back and putting on your snootiest expression.

Klaus chuckles.

You like it.

It's late and you leave.

Why is it so quiet at night?

____________

You hated that they would scream. Whenever you would use your power that is.

You couldn't feel it. Whatever it was. But it looked bad. All you had to do was focus, and something would happen. They would clutch the sides of their head, shutting their eyes as tight as possible.

And that was it.

Sometimes, very rarely, Five would shoot a strange look. It was somewhere between impressed and disturbed. 

You wouldn't have an expression when you did it.

You looked blank, empty.

The use of power wasn't a choice. But the way you looked when you did it was.

You weren't a cold person.

When Five looked into your eyes as you melted someone's brains he would mistake you for one.

____________

"Eat your food Number Eight."

Your trance was deep, but that voice could pull you out of any daydream.

You only nodded, not daring to look up at the man who had announced the order.

Once you heard that normal families smiled at the dinner table. It was a strange concept to you. The dinner table, as you had always been told, was for eating.

Smiling was for never.

You hated that.

You felt the salty meat hit your tongue. It wasn't gross, but you had associated it as so.

It's like when you read about Ivan Pavlov in a certain way.

You tasted it and a brooding darkness surrounded you.

You had been conditioned, not purposely, to associate the food with bad.

Bad that never seemed to leave you alone.

Maybe it wasn't the most accurate comparison you had ever thought of, but that was okay. It was okay because you didn't have to tell anyone.

It was only when you glanced up for a moment that you noticed the intense stare Five had been giving you.

Out of pure reflex you raised an eyebrow.

It was much too obvious.

"Focus Number Eight, Number Five."

Everytime your 'father' spoke you felt as if you might have a heart attack.

Although at the mention of both you and Five you could only expect a million giddy questions from Klaus later.

It wasn't like that.

No.

It was better. Or worse. They were hard to tell the difference between.

Once Five asked if you could make your own brain implode if you tried hard enough.

It definitely wasn't like that.

You looked up at him again. This time with a decent amount of caution.

He looked nice in his sweater vest.

You wanted to smile, although you couldn't.

It was a feeling you wouldn't soon forget.

____________

Five had been especially grumbly today.

Normally you wouldn't pay much mind to it. But he mentioned it. Five never mentioned things.

"I just-" he paused, letting out the most teenager-like scoffs you had ever heard. "I'm having a really shitty day," he finished, sighing heavily.

You got that.

Dear god you got that.

"Five," you replied, your tone coming out more 'Really dude?' than you had intended. "Everyday is shitty."

It wasn't like he could argue with you.

"Yes but this day was extra shitty." He was frustrated. He was always frustrated but this was a different kind of frustration. It was something you had very rarely seen from him.

It worried you.

There is a pause.

For some reason you wonder why.

These are the times when you feel the urge to use the gifts you have been given. Only now you can't.

It would be cruel.

Very very cruel.

So you wait. You wait and you listen to the silence, declaring to yourself that this isn't an emergency.

It isn't worth it.

"You need to sleep." You decide those words are good enough. Strong enough to create some calm in the conversation.

Why couldn't he just listen?

"No, no I can't do that. I need to think." He was debating. Solving things you so desperately want to know every single thing about.

You notice the rhythmic tapping of his hand on his leg. It was such a Five thing to do.

You _almost_ laugh again.

But this time you aren't really sure why.

You wonder if there was a reason your hand jolted out from it's previous position beside you, and slipped into his.

And then you wonder if he would notice your sudden act of stupidity.

 _Of course._ Of course he would notice.

It's the sort of thing that doesn't usually go over someone's head.

"Are you alright?" Those were the words you would've expected to come out of your lips in that moments. But they came out of Five's instead.

Were you alright?

It was debatable. 

Extremely debatable.

"Are you?"

"No, no I don't think so."

____________

Allison curled your hair that morning.

It was early and she told it would make you pretty. You told her that you weren't really sure what pretty was.

She laughed, perceiving it as a joke.

You let her curl your hair.

The whole process felt tedious to you. It was only going to last for part of the day anyway.

You didn't get it.

She assured you it was worth. So you let her finish.

Luther shot you a look. Of what you weren't fully sure.

Diego mumbled something. It was sweet. At least you thought it was.

Vanya smiled. It was nice. You smiled back.

Klaus shouted something at you. You hugged him. Klaus gave good hugs.

Ben told you it looked nice, and then you told him he looked nice too. Although he didn't look any different than normal.

"I don't get it," Five deadpanned, his eyes showing nothing but the slightest bit of confusion.

Your heart sank despite your frequent orders telling it not to.

"Oh." It was so soft, breathy. Five furrowed his eyebrows. You weren't smiling and you wanted to be. You wanted to look happy.

You wanted to be happy.

Why couldn't you be happy?

You thought about answering in a way that would surprise him. Make him feel something other than blankness.

"Good luck with that Five."

And then you walk away. Not dramatically.

No.

That would be too much.

Although like this wasn't too much already.

Five wondered what you could've meant.

That was the thing. You didn't mean much at all.

____________

It was the first time you had felt something this specific.

It reminded you of something. Or maybe it reminded you of what you thought something would be like.

Something you couldn't feel.

Something you could only watch.

It was so faint.

So incredibly faint.

You fell asleep.


	3. 'cause i've grown tired of this body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sound travels quite easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to go to shit before they even actually go to shit.

Why were you up in the middle of the night?

And more importantly why did your head hurt like your brain was trying to escape?

You had headaches before. Once or twice. It was normal.

You thought this was too.

At least you did until you feel something roll down your cheek. Something warm. Something wet.

Were you crying?

You never cried. It was a sign of vulnerability, weakness, cracking.

You didn't crack.

Where was your superglue? Did you even have any?

Just as feel your fingers brush against the fresh tear, something happens.

Something that reminds you of that salty piece of meat.

A shriek can be heard throughout the building. Eyes pop open. Bodies move from their beds and ears perk up with interest.

You wonder if anyone will come.

The headache is no longer a headache. It is your head tearing itself apart. Your brain can't think, it can't make sense of anything because it has been erased from existence.

You feel dizzy, but also much too aware. Your ears are warm, not dissimilar to your nose.

Screams. You only hear screams. But they are all at once. All of them shouting at you and you _can't_ \- you can't stop them.

You want to say something. Shout someone's name. But nothing but shrieks escape your lips.

You look down at your hands. They're shaking. There trembling uncontrollably and you wonder why.

You press them to the sides of your head. And you continue to scream. You scream because there is nothing else to do.

You feel a liquid press against your palm. 

Did ears cry too?

You didn't cease your scream but you did force a hand down to your line of vision.

Blood

Red. So so red. Fresh. Sickening.

You feel sick.

And then, in one quick motion, you pressed your hand to the side of your head again. 

Your head is throbbing like an open wound.

_Red._

_Hot._

_Searing._

_Cold._

_Pounding._

You duck your face into your knees which have been pressed against your chest. You've curled up, attempting to contain it. 

Attempting not to die.

Your shrieks are only slightly muffled by your own body. But they travel. Oh boy, they travel.

Your door opened. You couldn't see who it was. You couldn't look up you couldn't move you couldn't talk you _couldn't-_

"Eight!"

_Five. Five Five Five. FIVE._

You want to tell him you need help. That you did it. You did it.

You can, you really can.

And now you wish you couldn't.

Footsteps. Rushed, quick footsteps towards you. It's like a second long stampede and it's coming for you. To help to save you, to make sure you'll be okay because you aren't okay. You aren't okay.

_"I don't know. And I don't want to figure it out."_

_He only chuckles._

_"Understandable."_

The memory is the only thing that your mind can process. It was so calm, pleasant. And now it makes you want to barf. To get rid of all this. This pain, this torture, this pent up despair and destruction that you can't find the off switch for.

You think it's done increasing. You think that it can't possibly be worse than this. But it is. Just as a hand touches your shoulder it ignites something inside of you. You choke up a sob as another scream pushes it way up your throat. You can't stop screaming.

It hurts. It hurts even more now. You want to kill it. You want to look it in the eyes and tell it you won't deal with this, you won't break.

_Help._

The hand leaves your shoulder.

Are you going to die? That's what you think seems most plausible at this moment. It seems like this will be the moment both your body and mind say it's over. Now you can feel it. You know how it feels and you regret everything. You did this. You did this to people and you didn't seem to have a care at all.

And now they were all getting their sweet sweet revenge.

"Calm yourself Number Eight!"

Silence beckons you. It calls for you and tells you it can be night forever.

You let go.

____________

Vanya says that everyone was so worried about you.

She tells you about how they rushed down the halls and forced open your door even though it was unlocked.

She tells you about how Five was the first to shout your name. That his face was distraught in a way she had never seen before. And then you smile. Not because you're happy, but because you know you should be.

She makes it seem less intimidating than it was. She makes you feel like it's over now. Like your safe again.

You aren't. But that's okay.

That's okay because you were never safe and you lasted thirteen years that way.

"Your lucky to be alive," Grace tells you, and then she smiles. She's sweet about, not harsh. You can't take harsh anymore. 

"Very," you reply simply, shooting her a look that can only be taken as gratitude.

There is silence. Grace looks at you, her expression never wavering.

You wish you could say the same for yourself.

Crying was something you had never done much of. You didn't have time for crying when so many people depended on you to do something.

To save people by killing other ones.

Tears flood your eyes and you don't try to stop them. You need to cry. You need to let the water fall from your eyes until they are dry.

Your mother hugs you and you feel a strange sense of emptiness growing in your gut.

____________

This time there was a knock at your door.

You had been ordered a few days of bed rest. Reginald blamed the whole incident on stress. He said that the constant pulling and pushing at your mind just made it convulse from anxiety.

It was sort of true.

"Come in," you muttered, knowing exactly who it was. You didn't think he had ever come to _you_ before. He never said hi first. He never initiated the cycle of smiles.

It was all _you._

The door opened. You didn't move your head to look at who was standing there. You weren't mad. No. You were never mad.

But this was the closest you got.

"Hi."

Did you want to say hi back?

Did he deserve your words of kindness?

Yes, _of course._ Of course, he did. He was Five. 

"Hi," you reply, not intending to go much farther than that.

You still haven't looked at him.

He hadn't said a word to you until now. You couldn't even blame him for it either.

"How are you feeling?"

_I feel like crap Five. Shut up and hug me._

No, no you don't say that. You can't say something so blunt. Five didn't do blunt. There was something about it that pushed him away.

Your fingers weave together, it's a nervous action. Five notices. He wants to tell you that it's going to be okay. That you don't have to be nervous anymore. Nervousness if what caused you to scream that scream. The scream that pierced through his heart and beat him to the point where he couldn't say another word.

"I'm feeling fine." It was a lie. Maybe it was the biggest one you would ever tell.

Sometimes you wished that there was more to it all than just this. Than a lie that you had to tell everyone because everyone liked it that way.

"Oh." He knew. He knew you weren't fine and that lying to him pained you more than any soreness in your head. You couldn't look at him because it would make you fall apart. "I guess I should go then."

_No, you should stay. I want you to stay because I want to tell you how much I care and how much I wish I could tell you that I care and-. You know what it's complicated but please, stay._

Your door closed, leaving you alone again.

You felt the almost indescribable sense of unsettling darkness in your gut spreading more and more.

Five didn't listen. Five did, and he would always do. There wasn't much use in speaking to him. Sometimes it felt like it was entertainment to him in a way.

That disturbed you.

This whole house disturbed you.

But, most of all, you wanted to escape.

You doubted you would ever succeed.

____________

"Hey Eight," Diego says, his head peaking ever so slightly out from behind your door.

You smiled.

You liked Diego. He was nice. Sure, he was a little rough sometimes, but he was one of the people were when he cared he cared a lot.

You hadn't expected him to visit you.

Pleasant surprises were really what you needed right now.

"Hey Diego," you replied, your tone soft with kindness. He smiled. It made him look so harmless.

You didn't let that kind of stuff cloud the facts anymore.

"Can I come in," he questions hesitantly, raising an eyebrow in a friendly fashion.

You nodded weakly. Not because you felt weak in any way, more because sadness had decided you were its best friend.

"What's wrong," your brother asked as he made his way over to you. 

What's wrong?

A few things.

Well, more than a few.

_"You know I'll always be there for you right," you said as your fingers brushed against his cheek._

_He wasn't as intimidating from up close._

_"Oh Eight," he pauses, giving you a sympathetic glance. Your smile is a little bit less of a smile. "Don't make stupid promises you can't keep."_

_His hand grabbed your wrist, his grip only carrying a small bit of force as he guided your hand back down to your side._

_"There is always a fallout. It's inevitable."_

"Nothing, nothing is wrong Diego." 

Strangely enough, he beloved you, only responding with a faint nod that drifted off into the air. You felt fine like this.

Only partly alone.

"Oh yeah, it sure seems like it."

You let out a breathy chuckle.

Comedy. 

Yeah, yeah you could get used to this.

Get used to the insanity that swirls within your head you smile and walk like nothing is wrong. Like nothing has ever been wrong.

You try to remember when you felt even remotely normal.

Nothing comes to mind.

"Although I don't expect you to be fine after you know," he pauses, struggling to find the right words. "Having that weird mega migraine or whatever."

And laugh again.

It's official.

You are broken beyond repair.


	4. don't, don't you want me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things happen. Words are exchanged.  
> An actress is born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you all know what happens here.
> 
> Last chapter before we get into the real storyline of the show. Not sure if I should be excited or terrified.

You woke up, decently content you thought.

You smiled. Dear god you smiled. You brushed hair, you got dressed, and you kept smiling.

You brushed your blazer down onto your sides. The fabric flattened in the only way to like it.

You looked nice.

Nice wasn't enough anymore.

Darkness called to you once again, but this time it wasn't pulling you in. It was telling you something, warning you of the force. Not the one keeping you on the ground or the one that made created the ridiculous way or world goes around.

The force that was ready and able to take it away.

Your superglue.

____________

"Stop smiling at me," you heard a voice whisper in your ear. You shivered. Whispers scared you. They meant secrets.

Secrets meant lies.

Lies meant pain.

"Excuse me," you replied, your eyes glued to the air in front of you.

"You know exactly what _the fuck_ I mean Eight," The harsh language startled you.

Although only a little bit.

You didn't pay much thouhgt to your next words. It's not like they mattered anyway.

"Pay attention Number Five," you mumbled, not wanting to draw much attention to yourself. What was this sudden urge to grin?

Did you like the fact that you had irked Five? That you had gotten on the bad side of the boy you had always wanted to do everything for.

Yes, yes you did.

"God Eight, I don't care if you have some weird 'can't get stressed' disease. You suck sometimes."

You gasped, it was quiet, subtle enough to go unnoticed by most. Why did you want to cry again?

It was strange, you were smiling ever so faintly, and yet your eyes were wet.

It wasn't a sad cry. It was a cry of lost things, a cry of the truth.

You tried your best to blink it away. Sweep it under the rug and pretend nothing ever happened.

Five notices when you bring the back of your palm to your eyes.

____________

You glanced around you. 

Mealtimes were interesting. You noticed things. It was all the kept you going now.

You noticed the way a knife peaked up from under the table as Deigo focused on something that wasn't his food.

Klaus was too fondling with something under the table.

Ben pulled out a book, reading calmly as he ate his food.

The indistinct talking on the record relaxed you.

Of course, you weren't listening to it. You never listened to it. You just ate your food, and then you did whatever else you were told to do.

You let your glance drift to Five. He wasn't minding his own business at all, no, he looked like he was on his edge. About to burst into flames and all he had to was wait a few more seconds.

You were more right than you ever believed.

Five moved on his chair, his stare directed at Reginald and Reginald only.

Vanya looked at him, concerned, confused mostly.

There was a noise.

It wasn't a whisper of the wind or a creak from the breeze through the window.

It was, very distinctly, a knife. A knife that penetrated the fine wood of the table.

Attention was taken from the identical plates of food and replaced elsewhere.

Five's scowl grew.

"Number Five?" You felt your heart race. It wasn't your battle and yet just sitting on the sidelines the whole thing worried you.

What if he lost?

"I have a question," Five announced, his previously knife-wielding hand found it's way to his other. His lips pressed together with annoyance.

It wasn't like you expected anything but such.

"Knowledge is an admirable goal, but you know the rules." Reginald kept his focus on the table, he was calm, declaring. It left you with an unsettled feeling. "No talking during mealtimes. You are interrupting Herr Carlson."

_Yes Five, you are interrupting Herr Carlson._

Questions overwhelm you, just as statements do. You can't pipe in. It would be irresponsible. Vile. And yet you feel the urge to say something. Blurt something out. Shout at the top of your lung that you hate Kenndey for no reason at all. 

You don't.

Five shoves his plate forward. You assume it's an action of ephisis. It works. It does.

"I want to time travel." He says it almost as if he's talking to a small child. Like he needs to make it clear, blunt for lack of a better word.

"No," Reginald draws out. He predicts these conversations. You can tell by his demeanor. This seems like an outburst that would be almost common.

Looks can be, very often, deceiving.

"But I'm ready," Five insists, stubbornness is a trait you often see in him. "I've been practicing my spatial jumps, just like you said." 

As Five says those words he rises from his seat. He's planning on making his point clear, you all know that. Maybe your siblings don't worry as much for Five as you do. Maybe they can only expect this conversation to end, for Five to retreat somewhere and grumble for the rest of the day. But you know Five. You know all his ques and peeves. 

This isn't a simple argument between father and son. This is a debate about something so much larger than that.

Five's face scrunches as the familiar blue light engulfs him, a smooth sound erupting from it.

He appears again, next to your father.

_Back down Five. Please, just back down._

"See," he says, imagining to himself that something so small could convince Reginald of something so large.

"A spatial jump is trivial when compared with the unknowns of time travel." The words force a chill towards you. It takes you in, making you cold, scared. Utterly terrified because your comfort blanket no longer brings you comfort.

"One is like sliding down the ice," Reginald is still refusing to look at Five. To look at the boy who is defiant at the basic rules of 'don't destroy your life by doing some risky and unsafe'. "The other is akin to descending blindly into the depths of the freezing water," his glass is raised as if he is about to take a drink from it, "and reappearing as an acorn."

He takes a sip of the dark liquid. The feeling in your gut is now akin to descending blindly into the depths of the freezing water as well.

Five grimaces, his gaze turning from Reginald for a moment just to return soon after.

"Well, I don't get it," Five replies, his voice sharp yet breathy. He looks like he always does. And that's what bothers you the most. He isn't fighting some urge to conform. He's fine with this. And fine is something that scares you more than death.

"Hence the reason your not ready." Reginald places his cup back onto the table. Five glances around him.

His eyes catch with Vanya's for a moment, or at least you assume so. She is moving her head, telling him no. He pays no attnetion to it because he never does. 

He doesn't even look at you. Not for even a millisecond. You feel as if tears can't come.

Five's gaze refocuses on Reginald.

"I'm not afraid," Five practically clarifies. You wonder if he believes this is making any difference. If he thinks he knows more than his own father. The man who somehow gathered Eight super-powered children from their homes and trained them to be a crime-fighting team.

"Fear isn't the issue, the effects it might have on your body, even your mind, are far too unpredictable." Your father slices his food in a jagged, fast pattern. His words increase in speed, become more frustrated, on edge.

Something poisonous washes over you. Your whole body tightens and you feel as if you can no longer breathe.

_Five, it's okay. Five-Five, please just stop._

You could read his mind. You could know exactly where he's going, exactly what he's thinking.

You do. Only for a second. Reginald has told you that sometimes if someone was to focus hard enough, they could tell when you were doing it. They could sense the invasion in their head and then they could turn to you, an all-knowing grimace plastered on their lips, and kill you. It was hypothetical. But the thought caused you to be more discrete. You believed it to be his intention anyway.

You only make out a faint, ' _Fuck this_ '. You were disappointed, although not surprised.

"Now, I forbid you to talk about this any more," Reginald stated, his utensils falling onto his plate.

He looked at Five now.

Your throat tightens. You wanted to choke but no noise came out.

_No no no, Five, please no._

You knew when Five had enough. This was one of those times. The times when he no longer listens to any of the reasons being fed into his brain. When he acts as the wrecking ball crashing into his own life.

His eyes seem to be glued to the floor for a moment. It makes you want to do it again. To read his mind so you know his next move.

So you can mimic it, follow him to wherever he wishes to go.

He turns, you want to cry out because the pain is too much at the moment.

Everything goes fuzzy for a second before words can be heard again.

"Number Five!"

Your body seizes up, your limbs become stone and your heart stops beating.

"You haven't been excused!"

That was it. It really was. That was when you let go for the last time. Letting your body take over your mind because your mind was at no use to you anymore.

You push your chair away from the table.

You were fast, fast enough to take a bullet in the shoulder. Fast enough to rush out the door after Five like a madman because that's what you were.

Mad.

"Number Eight, come back here this instant!" 

Those words don't affect you. They only slow you down, and now you are fast again. You are speeding like light itself and you hear the fading clicks of Five's shoes and you mimic his movement.

Run behind him.

Jump of the cliff with him.

You leave the building you dared to call home. The sun shines in your face and you like it. You like the breeze and you like the sounds of the people moving the streets.

Your eyes look around to see the gates. To small metal gates that are open, moving as if someone had just pushed them open.

Someone had.

"Five!"

You shout it, not even sure if he's still here. If he's still in your reach, close enough so you can grab his hand and pull him back.

Where is your superglue?

You hear the very distinct sound of shoes scraping against the concrete. Turning. Spinning. Moving so they can see who has just shouted their name like it was no one's business.

Your eyes meet his. Your breath is heavy, not because of the running, no, it's the very apparent terror in your eyes and moves to Five's.

"Don't go," you say, not wanting to raise as much attnetion as your previous statement. You still haven't moved from your stop on the steps. It's almost like something forbids you from doing so. Five always said you were too soft, a 'total pushover'. You couldn't argue with him anymore.

You expect him to snap back at you. To tell you that your a complete fucking idiot and that you need to man up and realize that there's more than this. More than this stupid house on this stupid street.

But no.

It's short.

A shake of the head. A faint gesture that sends so many chills down your spin you feel as you are going to faint.

He turns again. You watch, paralyzed, as his fists clench. His feet rock on the sidewalk, what you assume as a determined look on his face.

Your eyes widen, it's all so quick. Your feet stumble down the steps, your arms knock against the slowly swinging metal as you run again. Your feet make a desperate attempt to reach him, your arm extends, your fingers trying to something other than air.

You were crying. Crying because you were falling apart over and over. Too many times to count now.

Your head hurt.

The blurriness of your vision flashed blue as your hand touched something. A shoulder, you believed it to be that. You pulled it back, you tried. Dear god you tried.

Nothing.

The shoulder was too strong, it escaped your grip, your hand felt hot. It was torn between space and time, you cried out.

The pain was nothing. _Nothing._

You crumble.

Not physically. No. Never physically. Your body stands tall, your arm falls to your side. You bring your hand up to your ear, pushing a piece of hair behind it. The world can see it now. They can see the burnt pieces of flesh that dot your hand. Another thing that represented how cracked you were.

Your eyes are wet.

Nothing wet nor warm drips down your cheeks.


	5. they were all in love with dyin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another beginning. And maybe, in a sense, another end.

_"Sit up straight Number Eight" _

It  was the last thing he said to you. That fact didn't have the  power  to bother you anymore.

You smile.

You assume they will be arriving soon. And then you start to wonder what they'll think of you.

Maybe nothing.

You are still Number Eight after all. You look thirteen, you  behave  like you did when you were thirteen, you smile like a thirteen-year-old. And god do you have the same feelings you did all those years ago.

_ Five. _

It's been seventeen years and that painting still  terrorizes you to this day. The look in his eyes, the nonchalant stare you had received so many times, it was always present now.

False happiness floods through you like a raging storm.

The lies had been boxed up for so many years that you could only expect them to come crashing down soon.

Precisely  like a collapsing barricade of captivity.

Your glance drifts downwards. You don't know if it's because your tired and the weight of your body is too much, or because your hand is one of the only things that really reminds you of him.

It doesn't hurt, people often ask you if it does. Scars don't feel pain, they only remind you of it. Remind you of the agony that wasn't even physical.

You smile.

Pogo had been so kind after it all happened. So had Grace, although she seemed slightly distraught. You smiled at her, placed a hand on her shoulder, and you told her it was going to be okay. That she didn't have to worry anymore, she had no need to fret, that you would be there. 

You would be there because you were Number Eight, it was what you did.

"Eightie?" 

You recognized her voice. You recognized all of their voices. A few years before everyone left, expect Luther of course, you made a vow to memorize every single thing about all of them. You wanted to be able to stop them from a mile away. 

You turned, your smile widening at the thought of another person. Someone who's not a robot, a monkey, or an emotionally distanced adopted dad.

"Vanya," you exclaimed, pushing aside the fact that she saw you standing int he middle of the room completely motionless.

She smiled faintly. Vanya wasn't one to show much, but she always meant it.

You let yourself walk over to her. And then you let yourself warp your arms around her and pull her into an awkward but not unexpected hug.

You had become a big hugger over the years. No one could ever explain why.

You let your arms drift back to your sides, creating a reasonable space between you and your sister. 

You were still smiling.

"I read your book," you blurt out, your fingers intertwining nervously in front of you. It was a subject that had to come up at some point.

That book was ballsy. You would have applauded her if it was more appropriate.

"Oh." She was much more nervous than you. People hated Vanya simply because she was herself. You never got that. 

"I really liked it," you pipe up, thinking back to your face, the one you made the words entered your brain like a waterfall.

She smiles, it's more sympathetic than kind. Maybe there the same thing. You don't know

"Sorry about the stuff with uh-" she pauses, it's challenging to get the words out. It's just as challenging for you to hear them. "Sorry about the stuff with you and Five."

Oh yes. You knew she would regret that.

You always wondered why she put it so bluntly, so sure.

_Number Eight was kind, she smiled, but the smile always hid things. Everyone knew that. Even Five. Although sometimes I questioned if he fully understood her. If he fully understood how much she really loved him._

It could be taken as nothing. It was just a few sentences after all. A few, more, something like that.

_She never told anyone she had feelings for him. Maybe she didn't tell herself either. She had a million reasons to deny it. But it was all in the smile. It wasn't fake around Five. At least not until the end. He made her happy. I don't know if anyone else could do that._

Feelings. Such a strange thing. You feel numb to them now. Although reading about them always arose something inside of you. Something warm, tingly maybe.

"You hate me," Vanya stated, tilting her head only slightly.

"No, no no no Vanya," you attempt to reassure her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I wouldn't have hugged you if I hated you."

She smiled. You smiled.

Maybe she was right. Maybe Five _was_ the only one who could make you happy.

____________

You sit on the desk. You had to move some things aside.

It's comfortable enough.

You don't support Klaus's unruly endeavors. But you will sit and watch because life sucks and you have nothing better to do.

You listen to the footsteps of a person. Which person, you have no idea. You aren't looking at them.

Your gaze is focused on the floor and the floor only.

"Where's the cash," you hear Klaus whisper, the sound of him rifling through drawers passes you by.

The footsteps draw closer.

You still don't look up.

Soon they stop. 

"Klaus, Eight, what are you guys doing in here?" The sound of the voice makes you smile.

Allison told you that you were pretty once. It was a nice few seconds, really.

The riffling stops. You turn this time, watching as Klaus pops up fro his spot behind the old desk.

"Oh! Allison!" You can't tell if he's excited, or just really desperate for something. Cash, drugs, booze, all the Klaus Hargreeves necessities.

"Wow, is that you." Klaus' voice is quiet compared to your sister's. He's tiptoeing. He always does it when he's caught.

Allison shakes her head only slightly in disapproval.

She's fighting back a smile.

"Hey, come here," Klaus announces as he extends his arms. You listen to the sounds of the room. The ticking of the clock. The clicking on the pen in your hand against the table.

Klaus hugs her in a soft way. It's short. Nothing really.

Allison lets him. You've all gotten used to Klaus over the years.

"Long time," Klaus mumbles as he hugs her, eventually separating. "Too long."

It seems like only yesterday she had the curling iron strategically placed in your hair. Only yesterday when Ben said you looked nice and Five told you he's simply didn't understand the whole concept.

You _almost_ laugh.

"Hey, I was hoping to uh, see you actually," Klaus says, his voice still quiet as he breaks the hug. 

His hands move to his chest for a moment. He looks nervous. 

You _almost_ laugh again.

"Because," he starts, his words coming out as breaths. 

Your smile tightens.

"I wanted you to get your autograph," he says in nothing of and interesting manner. "Add it to my collection," he adds lifting the back of his hands up to his chin. His voice girlifies in a joking way. 

You really do laugh this time. Well, more of a chuckle. 

Allison looks at you for a moment.

Then her eyes focus on something else.

_Ah yes, Klaus and his supposed soberness._

"Just out of rehab," she questions, her hand drifting the bracelet on his arm.

You didn't bother Klaus about it when you noticed. You just said hi, and then you followed him around for a while.

It was a very you thing to do anyway.

"No, no, No, no, no, no," Klaus insists, creating a distance between him and the woman who is giving him a look of slight judgment.

"I'm done-I'm done with all that," he says, his focus now the bracelet that is attached to his wrist.

He sighs. You smile deafens.

"I just came down here to prove to myself that the old man is really gone." He fakes out sadness. His voice on the edge of a faux cry.

"And he is," his demeanor changes. His hands raised up into the air. "He's dead, yeah!" 

He starts clapping. Your next chuckle is almost nothing. Just a few breaths from your nose, your head bobs a little.

"You know how I know?" He points a finger at Allison. You sigh. "Because if he were alive, not one of us, would be allowed to set foot in this room," he emphasizes. Allison's eyes drift to the desk. She stays quiet.

"He was always in here, our whole childhood." You hop off the desk, nothing falls, your always careful. It's one of your virtues, dad said that once. "Plotting his," Klaus sits down in the chair," next torment, right?" He chuckles.

You move to the front fo the desk, you lean against it. You can't remember how many times you had stood in that doorway behind you.

No longer, you think, no longer.

"Remember how he used to look at us," Klaus's finger point up to your father's painting. The painting you always knew was in bad taste.

You hated having someone wash over you. Especially yourself.

"That scowl. Thank Christ he's not out real father so we couldn't inherit those cold dead eyes!" 

It's meant as a joke. Klaus makes a silly gesture. He exclaimed toned down screams. Allison laughs.

You do too, even if you not paying much attention to it.

"Number three," he mimics your father. 

God this household was always insane.

"Oh, oh," you pipe up, "Now children, focus on your task at hand." Again, you're not good at voices. But it earns a laugh from your siblings.

"Get out of his chair."

You sigh.

Luther always ways the one to ruin it just when someone had almost got you to smile.

Really smile.

The rest is anything but clear to you.

A blur of telling off and Klaus being, well, Klaus.

You smile.

It means nothing.

____________

Allison takes a drink. You listen to the clinking of glass behind you. You stand. Sitting it futile.

Resistance is not. Resistance is survival.

The deepness of your thoughts brushes off when Luther speaks.

"Um," it's quiet, almost like the crackle of the record as your brother stands up. His height always overwhelmed you. Even before. "I guess we should get this started."

"So I figured we could have a sort of memorial service," Luther explains. "In the courtyard at sundown," Luther explains.

Of course, he has a plan for this.

"Say a few words, just at dad's favorite spot."

You wonder why anyone was putting thought into this. He wasn't a good man. There was no reason to remember him as such.

"Dad had a favorite spot," Allison questions. It's not harsh. No, she's never harsh.

"You know, under the oak tree," Luther replied almost immediately. He's so sure. It breaks you a little bit.

Allison doesn't have much of an expression.

"We used to sit under there all the time. None of you ever did that?"

The sound of Luther's confusion is faded by the wonderful arrival of yet another brother.

"Will there be refreshments," Klaus questions. It comes off much ruder than you know he intended.

Allison looks up at him, shooting him a look of something. Her expression still doesn't change much though.

"Tea? Scones?" He continues on. "Cucumber sandwiches are always a winner." His voice is almost slurred, the cigarette in his hand emphasizing his unstableness at the moment.

You realize that nothing has changed.

"What? No," Luther shoots back, furrowing his eyebrows. "And put that out. Dad didn't allow smoking in here," the man insists. You stay glued to your spot.

You never dare interrupt.

"Is that my skirt," Allison asks in a demanding fashion. Her expression does change this time.

"What," Klaus replies, turning to Allison who seems little behind on this whole concept. "Oh yeah, I found it in your room," he adds.

You really do chuckle this time.

"It's a little dated, I know, but it's very breathy on the," he pauses, his hand gesturing into the air, and then lower so to say. "Bits."

"Listen up," Luther demands. This is exactly what you had about him. It was a funeral for god's sake. He needed to have some fun with it. "Still some important things that we need to discuss, all right?"

"Like what," Deigo replies. It was the first time you had heard him speak in years.

His voice is just as deep and brooding as you had expected.

"Like the way he died," Luther answers as if it's completely obvious as he turned to Diego.

"And here we go."

You suck in a raspy breath.

"I don't understand. I thought they said it was a heart attack," Vanya puts in. She's just as calming as ever.

"He did," you blurt out before Luther can say anything more against her point.

The tall man shoots you a furrowed look before speaking again.

"Yeah," he drawls. "According to the coroner."

"Well, wouldn't they know," Vanya suggests. It makes sense. The whole thing just makes sense.

Luther always did have a tendency to make a mountain out of a molehill.

"Theoretically."

You feel like your watching one of those crappy conspiracy theories channels on youtube. You love your brother. You really do.

You just wish he would shut up.

"Theoretically," Allison asks in a perfectly reasonable tone.

Yes. This is what you all need. Reason.

"I'm just saying, at the very least, something happened." You want to facepalm. It's an urge you don't take lightly. "The last time that I talked to Dad, he sounded strange."

"Ohhh, Quelle surprise," Klaus gurgles, the drink rippling at the back of his throat.

"He always sounded strange," you mutter. Your input goes unnoticed.

How strange.

"Strange how," Allison asks, states, you don't know anymore.

"He sounded on edge. Told me I should be careful who to trust."

"Luther," Diego's voice startles you. "He was a paranoid bitter old man, who was starting to lose what was left of his marbles."

Diego is standing now. The sass has, apparently, never left him.

"No," Luther fires back. "He must have known something was going to happen."

"Look, I know you don't like to do it, but I need you to talk to dad." Luther directs his words at Klaus.

This time he almost laughing is much harder than it should be.

Allison scoffs, then takes a sip of her drink.

You agree.

"I can't just," Klaus starts, sitting up slightly from his spot on the overly decorated couch. "Call dad in the afterlife and be like, 'Dad could you just..stop playing tennis with Hitler for a moment and take a quick call?'"

You have to give it to Klaus. His humor is the only thing holding this family truly together right now.

"Since when? That's your thing." You never understand how others see Klaus's abilities. You remember when you were little and having to calm him down just so he could go to sleep because the sight of all the corpses was just too much.

It isn't the snap of a few fingers and brava. 

How could you explain that to them?

"I'm not in the right," he searches for a word," frame of mind," he decides on.

_That's for sure._

"You're high," Alison remarks with a slight bit of frustration in her tone.

"Yeah, yeah," Klaus exclaimed, his words carrying a laugh along with them. "I mean how are you not, listening to this nonsense?"

He always finds his point eventually.

"Well, sober up, this is important."

Luther knows nothing about anything at this moment. I mean to hell with the funeral, you say write him a letter and send it to hell so maybe he can get a taste of his own medicine from the big red underworld. Or wherever he is.

"Then there's the issue of the missing of the missing monocle," Luther goes on. You want to shout at him. If it wasn't such a rude action you wholeheartedly would.

"Who gives a shit about a stupid monocle," Deigo mutters, shaking his head slightly.

You wonder if maybe this is like the stories in some of your books. That maybe the cliche stands strong and the eccentric right guy really was just messing with all of you.

"Exactly," Luther snaps. "It's worthless." You think he's done. He's made his point. "So whoever took it, I think it was personal.

There is a pause. All eyes are on Luther and you can't blame them.

"Someone close to him. Someone with a grudge." You grimace.

He can't possibly be insinuating what you think he's insinuating.

"Where are you going with this," Klaus breaths out, confused liked the rest of you.

"Oh, isn't it obvious Klaus," Diego states, his voice deep, the slightest slur. "He thinks one of us killed dad."

You feel stabbed. In the back, front, side, just stabbed.

Luther grunts, turning away from Deigo and back to the only other family, he has.

The one he just accused of murder.

"You do," Klaus rasps. Your lips are parted slightly.

_Why, dear god, why do you pain us all this way?_

"How could you think that?" You always believed that the absence of powers changed Vanya when it came to socializing. She was left behind, told to be quiet.

Those things showed through eventually.

"Great job Luther, way to lead," Deigo murmurs, leaving Luther stunned, paralyzed.

You sigh.

"That's not what I'm saying," Luther tries to reason but he's not so rudely interrupted.

"Your crazy man, your crazy." Klaus gets up. 

"Ridiculous," you whisper under your breath. It still goes unnoticed.

Anything else that is said is just a blur to you. Your body has left the room. There is no use in using your power to make any understanding of Luther's statements.

It's too exhausting now.

You feel a faint ringing at the back of your mind.

Your grimace returns.

____________

You open the book.

It's Jane Austen. You always read it when you feel particularly gloomy about anything in particular.

This time it hits much closer to home than you expected it to.

You immerse yourself in the romantic endeavors of Elizabeth Bennet and forget the whole freaking world because books are easier. You can put them down with a simple motion. A book is words on a page. Life is all too real compared to that.

Something interrupts your reading. It isn't what you expect.

No, not at all.

It's music. Delightful music you haven't heard in a long time.

You smile.

The Hargreeves kids always did makeup eventually. Distanced dance parties or not.

"I think we're alone now."

You smile harder.

Something tugs at you though. Something that isn't pleasant.

The music drowns it out.

You nod your head to the rhythm, your eyes refocusing on the page.

_"What are you reading," you questioned, inching towards the boy. Your voice was much kinder than his. You never let it falter._

_There was a pause. You weren't sure if it's the fact that Five is probably finishing a sentence or the overwhelming sense that he is pissed and just doesn't want you to know about it._

_"Pride and Prejudice," he answered, his features stiffening slightly as the words escape his lips._

Something happens to you and your posture stiffens.

_Oh no Eight, not now. Listen to the music. It isn't worth it._

You follow your own advice. Something you often find very challenging.

And then, all of a sudden, no matter the cliche of it, the music stops. The scratching of a record and then nothing.

You hear something. It's loud. Terrifying because loud scared you now.

Loud like your screams. Loud like a knife stabbing into a table.

You run. Your bed bounces as you throw your book down, dashing across your room like a madman. Because that's what you are.

Mad.

Something blue flashes through your window. It isn't a top priority at the moment.

You hear distant clangs as you stumble down the stairs, listening to the rushed footsteps of your siblings.

You follow them. Mimic them.

All of a sudden you are exciting the mansion. Diego is the first out. The response is not promising.

The sky flashes blue. Something, something is coming. You can see it, big, blue, swirling with memories you never intended to re-live.

You exit behind the others, hearing Vanya shout "What is it?"

You are behind them. All you see is blue, and the back of some heads. But mostly blue.

"Don't get to close!" 

_No Allison, I'm gonna go hug it._

Sometimes your thoughts get sarcastic when you're stressed.

"Yeah no shit," Deigo replied, you would applaud him if it was more appropriate.

When is an appropriate time to applaud?

"Looks like some sort of temporal anomaly," weird, you think, very weird. "Either that or a black hole. One of the two."

Your blood runs cold. When was the last time you had to think about these sorts of things? Time, space, all of it was because of Five. This looks like Five to you. The almost patterned waves, the way it cuts through reality in such an elegant fashion. It's prominence, it's indescribable terror.

_"I think it looks like an ocean," you describe, you aren't smiling. Thinking this time. " A swirling ocean, only for a second though. One second where time stops and it's just you and your ocean."_

_Five smiles. You do too. He likes that analogy._

"Pretty big difference there, Paul Bunyan!" You _almost_ laugh.

You do that a lot.

"Out of the way!" The word burst through the wall your siblings have created.

_Oh. There's Klaus._

"What are you-" Luther cuts himself off. Maybe it's just not worth it right now.

He comes like he always does. Carrying some sort of destructive yet harmless object. This time it happens to be a fire extinguisher. He sprays it.

The white is nothing compared to the vast blue.

He heaves it, it barely pierces your ocean. Only making it emit a strange noise like it's swallowing it up.

You want to cry.

"What is that gonna do," Alisson questions loudly. You feel the urge to ask the same thing.

"I don't know," his arms are thrown briefly up into the air. "Do you have a better idea?"

 _No one does._ You think. _No one ever does._

The ocean crackles, growing, spurting. Barfing.

Five would _hate_ thatanalogy.

"Whoa whoa whoa," Luther warms, his arms extending as a shield.

A ridiculous shield.

"Everybody get behind me," Luther states, fearless.

"Yeah, get behind us," Diego states it too, also fearless.

They're both cowards.

"I vote for running, cmon," Klaus adds. You smile. You still feel like crying. Although this is much too interesting to cry over.

Luther holds Allison's hand.

You cringe.

That's when you hear it. Finally.

The very faint screams. They spark something familiar.

You decide to ignore it for now.

Something drops from the ocean. It changes, morphs from its old form. 

Your eyes are wet and your not sure why.

It all fades. The thing lies there, not motionless, just face down.

_Come on, just get it over with and tell us who you are already._

You're anxious. You're always anxious.

Everyone moves forward. Not particularly slowly. But slow enough.

Slow enough for you to let out an almost inaudible gasp.

The thing picks itself up.

You still keep to the back.

His face, most people would say, looks the same. You disagree. You say it looks a million times older and that doesn't bother you because he was always old. Old and getting older can only be a good thing. In your opinion at least.

"Does anyone else see," Klaus starts, the figure gets up on its feet, "little Number Five, or is that just me?"

He's not little. He's thirteen and currently taller than Vanya.

You feel insignificant.

Five looks at all of you, or maybe he doesn't.

Does he ever look at anyone?

His eyes travel to himself. His outfit. The oversized suit that he knew must have fit him just a minute ago.

He looks back up, his face carrying a half scowl.

"Shit."

_Deja Vu is sometimes, almost always, much stronger than any drug when it comes to happy little Number Eight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Looked over this chapter and realized I made a mistake. Fixed it. Just don't judge me too much for saying sixteen instead of seventeen. The facts man.)


	6. white lies in your arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five doesn't say much.
> 
> There isn't much time anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> (Also I know this chapter is HELLA short, okay. I wasn't even gonna put it in any way, it's just a little thing I thought would be nice to add) :)

Five was frantic.

Incredibly frantic.

Breaths left him in an un-orderly fashion. He wondered if this was it.

_"You know I'll always be there for you right?"_

Appealing. That's how it sounded now.

He heard something.

A cough? Maybe. Or, possibly, it was just a breath. A breath of hope, a breath of pain, despair. They don't usually differ.

He spun around, the windswept landscape failing to swallow him.

For now.

The fact that he could see a wrist peeking out from the landscape terrified him. A wrist with a very specific tattoo.

The fingers that had been laying still previously, moved. It was small. Almost unnoticeable, but they moved.

Five ran. He ran like a madman but that's not what he was.

He wasn't mad. Not anymore. He was tired. Tired of this life because it doesn't give you breaks like you so badly want it to.

It wasn't far from him. The noise that is. It was close. He could feel it creeping up to him. Scratching at his heart because it was so light. So weak.

You were weak now.

He dropped to is knees. The rumbling scraping against his skin didn't bother him at all. Neither did the weight of the rocks and he was furiously tossing to the side.

You. It was just you.

Of course, it was you. It had to be. You had to be the one who managed to save themselves a little longer than the rest.

"Eight?"

You didn't perk up at the sound of your name.

No.

It hurt too much. It hurt too much for you to give him that smile yet.

"Most likely," you choke out. It's so quiet.

Distant.

Five is in pain.

Blood. The red substance comes from you. Staining your clothes, the rocks, Five's mind.

"Hey hey, don't talk, just-" something stops him from speaking. It's in his throat, it's sad. 

You feel something. It's small. Small and petrifying in its insignificance.

In your insignificance.

Brooding. You hate brooding.

"Five I-" he cuts you off. 

You let him.

He is beyond terrified now and you don't like to think about it.

"No, no please just stay still." 

You can tell he's trying to be reasonable. That he's trying to do what he's supposed to do so he can save you.

So he can lift the rocks of you and reveal what he doesn't want to see.

And then he notices something. The hand he had witnessed so many times in the days past.

It's different. Blotches of a darker color dotting it. It's rippled only slightly.

Your hand is broken. It can only resemble what lies inside.

He wonders what happened to you.

You do too.

His hand touches something, you wince at the contact. He immediately withdraws it.

His eyes widen. They never go completely back to normal.

He turns his focus back to you.

You and only you.

Number Eight. The girl who took a bullet for him.

Had he ever thanked you for that?

No, no he hadn't.

"What happened-I don't, who did this," he questions, his hand brushing against your dirt-stained cheek.

You only smile.

He lets the tears fall now.

"Vanya," you manage to whisper. It's hoarse, faltering.

But he gets it.

He furrows his eyes brows in confusion.

 _Vanya._ He thinks. _Strange._

But then he sees you again.

Blood leaking from seemingly everywhere it can.

Eyes threatening to close forever

"Just-" he chokes up a sob. You keep smiling. "Just stay with me okay?"

Lies meant pain.

"Five, Five I can't-" your voice gives. 

He lets a sob rack his body once more.

"No, no, please. You can, I know you Eight, you fight, you can fight." He wanted to sound sure. He really does. But he can't. He can't because he knows the truth.

"I love you."

It's not a phrase he's surprised by. You had said it many times. He knew you loved him.

He knew that, at least.

Although now, and this was the only time, there was no use in saying it back.

You made one last effort to close your eyes. Probably because you felt it rude to make Five stare at them when they could no longer see.

The boy screamed.


	7. sleep paralysis till i die, die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of confusing words and even more confusing actions.
> 
> Five takes everything much too lightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this note before I start the chapter. It is all but a few minutes after I published chapter six.
> 
> Let's see how long this one takes me. :)

"What's the date? The exact date."

He hadn't needed to specify 'exact'. It was Five.

Of course, it had to be exact.

"The 24th," Vanya replies, rushed, stressed maybe? Five's scurrying around the kitchen doesn't phase you nor does it bother you.

You had, many times, watched as he made his sandwiches. The idea seemed repulsive to you. 

Smiles escaped you like breaths on a hot day.

"Of what," Five snaps back.

_'I ain't takin' no guff.'_

It's just something you commonly imagine him saying.

"March."

You hate March. There is no particular reason for the obscure hatred. It just leaves you unsettled, sick maybe.

He places the seemingly random ingredients on the table. He looks at none of you and the feeling of insignificance grows, well, significantly.

A nod can be interpreted from his thoughtful pause.

"Good."

You don't spend time wondering what he meant.

There is nothing, for a moment, and you look at your siblings.

None of them are pleased. None of them are amused. None of them are even slightly on the verge of laughing at Five's sudden appearance.

Your starting to think that you've become hysterical.

"So, are we gonna talk about what just happened?"

_No Luther, try lowering your expectations for once._

Again, stress makes you bitter.

There is no response to Luther's question. He said it like a demand. As if he owned you all now that dad had fortified his position.

Your siblings share limited glances of awkwardness, confusion, all of it floats over your head like rainclouds before a storm.

A very deserted storm.

"It's been seventeen years."

Luther stands. Every time he does so his height manages to take you back a step. Maybe it's because you had to be there when it happened. Maybe it's because you feel guilty that you hadn't been there to help him. Despite the many speeches Pogo had given you about how it wasn't you, it wasn't anyone, you can't accept that.

There is a scoff and you fold inwards.

Arguments are so common. You wish they would go away.

"It's been a lot longer than that." You miss his rudeness and you don't know how to feel about that.

Five takes a forceful step forward. Not particularly quickly. Just forceful.

The ocean engulfs him and the staredown between him and Luther ends abruptly as he is no longer in the same spot.

It's so quick. The ocean lasts nothing but a portion of a second

You miss it. You miss him.

Luther is no longer demanding, or maybe he is, or maybe he's nothing and your all nothing and Five is something that can also be considered nothing.

"I haven't missed that." It's not crude. No. It's sad?

Your smile deafens.

His emotions are always so covered in the most idiotic of ways.

"Where'd you go," Deigo questions in a completely un-questioning manner.

There is no pause. Just a rustle and words again.

You don't plan on getting a thought in at all.

"The future." He grabs something. Blue, so much blue. "It's shit, by the way."

He's back at the table again and you try not to scream something silly.

"Called it," Klaus pipes up, a finger pointed lazily in the air.

He beat you to it.

"I should've listened to the old man." His voice is low, experienced and you realize that Five had always sounded that way. This all just seems to amplify it. "You know," the door of the fridge is pulled open and decisive eyes scan the inside. "Jumping through space is one thing," He pulls something out, smoothly, although not gracefully, shutting the appliance with a flat line for lips. "Jumping through time is the toss of a dice."

You vaguely remember the poisonous feeling now. It had left you, for a while, your memory doing a pretty good job erasing it. You always assumed it to be like giving birth, your mind makes you forget it and decides it might be best to just tone all the memories of it down. 

Way down.

You feel almost, indescribably, ill.

He places a jar of peanut butter on the table. You want to smile. You want to say 'oh look! Five is still himself and the world tilts on its axis once more!'

You stay quiet.

Five pays no mind to it like he pays no mind to anyone else.

He looks up. Maybe he makes eye contact with someone. Although you're doubtful. He doesn't glance at you.

"Nice dress."

You're not a hugger. You've never been a hugger. You don't hug because you like hugging.

It's something entirely different that causes you to want to wrap your arms around Five and squeeze him tight. Some would-most would, call it romance, maybe. That you are trying to be a certain type of person for the imminent charm. You, and only you, call it curiosity. 

A smile forms on your face and you push revelations aside.

"Oh, well, Danke!"

Klaus, being Klaus, takes the cake for the best comedian once again.

Or maybe it's Five now. Dry humor.

Anything can be hilarious coming from the right, thought out, person.

"Wait, how did you get back," Vanya half interrupts. Her hand is placed in front of her as a gesture of reason.

She won't find any.

"In the end, I had to project my consciousness forward into a suspended quantum state version of myself that exists across every possible instance of time."

You think about it. You don't understand it. You get it though. The idea. You're not an idiot. Five had so many times told you about these things when the sky was dark and the house was quiet.

You wonder if he remembers any of it.

No, no, he wouldn't.

It seems like the sort of thing that would stay in his mind for a little while. A year? Two? And then, when the grimness settles only emptiness appears.

You were a discarded memory, you assumed.

"That makes no sense," Diego murmurs, once again, his tone having no bite.

_That's a much simpler way of putting it, yes._

"It would if you were smarter."

You want to shout 'oh dang' and make a pose that would be utterly ridiculous in any situation such as this. You would've if you were still young. But you don't.

Deigo stands. Maybe some fierceness actually makes it's way to him this time.

Luther stands too. The action is delayed, but it works because one is a wall and the other throws knives.

"How long were you there." He says it fast. His eye trained on something else that's out of the frame for you.

You wonder the same thing.

"Forty-five years. Give or take."

It hits you again. It hits you and it punches and punches you until your legs feel wobbly.

You feel much sicker with the sudden urge to announce that fact out loud.

You still stay quiet.

Luther sits, dazed, so does Diego. So does everyone. Five is fine. Five had forty-five years to get used to the idea.

You had five seconds and you really can't hug him.

"So you're saying," there isn't much of a pause, you just fill in space with a longer one. "That your fifty-eight?"

Your eyes bulge for a moment, and being in the back, no one sees it. Five doesn't care. You could barf right now and scream bloody murder and he would nonchalantly suggest a towel and a doctor. Therapist maybe.

So so bad at examples. Analogies. Anything like that.

"No, my consciousness is 58," He looks down for a moment, sandwiching his so-called sandwich. "Apparently, my body is now 13 again."

You feel like you can relate. In a way. Has he noticed that you too have not aged at all? That you have the same acne you had to cover up every morning or that your head still has that thing where it's a little bit big because you're still 'growing into your body'.

"Wait, how does that even work?" Vanya is so calm.

God you want to scream, something, anything.

_WHY IS THIS FAMILY SO-SO.....wierd?_

He takes his sandwich in his hand. It's normal. For some reason, it seems terribly unsettling.

"Dolores kept saying the equations were off." He shrugs, taking a bite of his sandwich. How many times had he done that when you were kids? How many times had he eaten that ridiculous peanut butter and marshmallow fluffernutter that you didn't care you understand nor try?

Not enough, apparently. You had forgotten what it looked like.

"Bet she's laughing now." He turns, coming back from the spot a couple of feet away he had retreated to for a moment.

You still want to scream.

"Dolores?"

It's Vanya who asks it, not you, never you. You, of all people, don't like to pry. At least, not here.

Here is a time for the basics. Detail, details are nothing and can only be handled when emotions are taken out of storage.

He looks down, chewing loudly, obnoxiously even.

"Hm." He picks on the newspaper. The newspaper that held in it, on the front page, your father's translucent death. Oh, the glory. The joy that is a departure from this world that wants to push you down.

Sometimes the absence of poetry in your life manifests as weird-ass thoughts.

"Guess I missed the funeral."

Yeah, you all did. It happened long before you knew your father. Long before the academy began. You can only assume it happened when he was young. If that was ever the case.

"How'd you know about that?"

Your eyes squint an almost undetectable fraction.

"What part of the future do you not understand."

This time, mostly because you are done with it and tired of tiptoeing around someone who isn't tiptoeing around anyone else, you do chuckle.

It's not a crude chuckle. You can't chuckle crudely no matter how hard you try.

It's a smile and a noise that manages to convey so much happiness.

You're still cold.

Eyes jerk to you for a moment. Not in a judging way, more of a questioning manner. You wonder what they might be asking you.

Five doesn't care.

"Heart failure, huh?" He isn't bothered and you don't expect him to be.

"Yeah."

"No."

This time the chuckle forces it's way back down because you know it's not right. It would be cruel. Cruel isn't you.

The urge to scream dies down only slightly.

There is a click of a tongue and a disappointed look in Five's eyes.

"Nice to see nothings changed."

You agree and your not completely sure what about.

He starts to walk and a strange sense of panic settles in again. 

Your head hurts.

"Uh, that's it? That's all you have to say," Allison asks, calm, distraught, either works and you can rarely tell the difference.

His voice is drowned out by distance.

"What else Is there to say? The circle of life?"

Klaus's hands leave their thinking position under his chin and Vanya turns to her much taller sister.

He's gone and, for some reason, words can escape you now.

"God Kennedy sucks."

It has nothing to do with J.F.K and that is quite apparent.

____________

Your feet sway against the ground, heels rippling against the soles of your shoes.

This wasn't in any bit like you had imagined it.

The hallway was still quiet.

In your dreams, it had gone down in such a simple way. You would be in your room, reading of course. And then, like the thoughts in your mind escaped you, there would be whispers. You would try to listen, but the walls would almost drown them out completely. You would smile, letting a breathy chuckle escape your lips.

There would be a knock at the door.

You would flip a page in your book. It was such a calm action. Your would head feel perfectly clear.

'Come in,' you would shout, only expecting an agitated Klaus trying settle yet another bet with Ben.

The door would slowly creak open, every second wouldn't be agony because you didn't expect anything. And that was the worst of it.

'So,' you would start, attempting to tear your eyes from the page. 'Is there any reason you have decided to interrupt my latest reading of Miss Marple?'

You would look at the person standing in the doorway.

Poison would flood your veins again. Your head would be pounding, your vision would be blurry.

'Is that all I get?'

You sighed. Letting it out. The pent up stress that you had always associated with Five.

Your hand hovered over the wood door.

Memories clouded you.

It was dark again. You were young. Your hair was neatly tucked behind your ears. You were smiling. Five was arrogant and you were okay with that.

Were you still okay with it?

Your eyes turned to slits. Your gut twisted and tied itself into a knot. Your nosed wrinkled and scrunched. Your head hurt.

Feet didn't stop swaying.

Did they ever?

No, no because you never got a chance to knock. You didn't get to knock because just as fast as the door was closed it fluttered open.

You wanted to laugh. But you really couldn't. You couldn't because this too, was something you had often imagined.

"What," Five stated blankly. You tried your best not to answer sarcastically.

"Nice socks."

He pushed past you.

Something rushes over you and you spin around. Your mind is frozen, but dear god, your body isn't. Your eyes grow to an unreasonable size and grab something. You know it's a wrist because your not an idiot and you know what a wrist is like.

Five stops. You expect to shout some of the various profanities in his vocabulary at you. You're completely prepared for a verbal beat down. But no.

There is just silence.

"Hey," you start, nervousness invading seemingly every part of you now. "I mean my outfit is basically the same since I've been living here forever anyway. You know I think it's kinda cute if you going for the tortured schoolboy thing and all. Although to be honest I really-" your words are cut off.

You do yourself a favor and shut up.

"What happened to your hand?" You wanted to be smooth. You wanted to shrug off his question and flip out some ridiculous line just to mess with him. You wanted it to be the same again.

False hopes plagued you once again.

_You happened._

"What happened to _your_ hand" you shoot back, letting his wrist drift back to his side. Five raises an eyebrow.

Your thirty years old. This shouldn't be happening. 

"Tell me."

You want so badly to comply. But you don't. You don't because he just came back from a world where all of you were dead, And now you couldn't possibly tell him that your one measly attempt to pull him back left you with a nasty scar. 

You were weak again.

You feel like you have let the whole in your wall grow too large.

"I burnt it," you pause, thinking if it's worth it or not. "On a stove."

Five doesn't reply.

You smile. And then, like always, he leaves again. 

Your head stops hurting.

____________

Coldwater taps you under the shield of the umbrella.

It's fitting so you, like normal, accept the cold.

As your siblings file out, you wonder if maybe there was a reason it was raining today. If there is a purpose to the rain that you should be catching onto.

Or maybe it's just rain.

"Did something happen?" The words come from your mother and it brings a certain sadness much closer to you now.

Everyone looks at her. They just stare. Eyes boring into her robot head and you want to hug her now. You want to thank her because she saved your life that one night.

Now she's slipping and it makes you curse the wind.

"Dad died. Remember," Allisons asks, softly, although her face is filled with much more personal confusion than empathy.

You expect more from her.

There is a short pause. Nothing but a second where your mother needed to collect her simple thoughts.

"Oh." She looks at something, somewhere, does it matter? "Yes, of course."

You want to cry and you wonder if anyone noticed the familiar look of despair on your face as you stand neatly next to Allison. 

You don't slouch anymore, it's the only thing you can thank dad for.

"Is mom okay?"

She's right there. Can Allison not see her?

"Yeah, yeah she's fine." Deigo is concerned and you've only seen it on him a few times before. It's different, you wish he would show it more often. "She just needs to rest. You know, recharge."

You like Deigo. He would visit you when you were sick and he would tell you stories about the days you missed.

Granted, they weren't the best of stories, but you appreciated them nonetheless.

None of it mattered now.

Allison sways on her feet only a little, Deigo gives her a look that is supposed to convey explanation but it seems unlikely to you.

You listen to the second tapping that moves to your ears. It's a cane, the distinct pole on the ground that you would hear every day as Pogo would approach you.

Everyone is moving and you stay completely still.

Luther turns to Pogo, nervous, anxious, terrified because so many things had happened and dad had left him to deal with them all.

"Whenever your ready, dear boy." His manicured tone hits you like a pile of bricks and mentions that this is your normal now. It's normal to have talking monkies and eight feet tall brothers who you couldn't save.

Luther looks at your father's contained ashes and hesitance alludes him. At least, you assume so.

His expressions tend to be blatant and maybe your glad about that.

The sound of metal moving against metal hits you too, and this time it's much lighter. You pay attention to the sparkly drops of water that sprinkle Luther's coat. How his gloved hands seem almost gentle, despite their strength and size, when opening the urn.

Vanya looks at him and you wish to know her thoughts.

It's torture at times, your power. If you would like to know what you are getting for Christmas you can. But you can't forget it.

You never forget anything.

The ashes fall like a lackadaisical waterfall into the wet mud and leaves.

You sigh. It's quiet. No one hears you. 

Things happen slowly for you and sometimes it makes you want to know how fast it goes for everyone else.

Klaus clenches his teeth in the unbearable cold that comes with rain and you have no idea if there is a grimace hidden inside it.

Pogo turns up his head as to question if it was supposed to go like this. If the comically bland pouring of ashes was the desired outcome of such an event. If this was your father would've wanted.

You realize your father would've wanted nothing and you decide to cease your thoughts.

"Probably would've been better with some wind." He looks like a lost dog. 

Allison closes her eyes and you still keep your body perfectly still.

No one notices how you let the freezing weather overtake you and sweep you up in silence again. How you do it anytime it is raining. How you sit at your window and do nothing but stare at the tiny droplets of tears falling from the sky.

"Does anyone wish to speak?"

No one responds and you know you wish you could. You wish you could say yes and come up with some glorious speech that would encapsulate your father is a wonderful yet concise way.

There is no such speech.

"Very well." You scrunch your face up like you have smelt something terrible, it's the only large movement you've made so far. "In all regards, Sir Reginal Hargreeves made me what I am today. For that alone, I shall forever be in his debt. He was my master," there is a pause, god you feel like crying again. "And my friend, and I shall miss him very much."

You won't miss him. That makes it all even worse.

"He leaves behind, a complicated legacy-"

"He was a monster." You grimace. These are the times when you see the parenting shining brightly in Deigo. Klaus chuckles hoarsely. "He was a bad person and a worse father." He takes a furious pause, glances at your brother cannot be positive now so you decide to cease them. "The worlds better off without him."

"Deigo," Allison snaps, warns, agrees but can't say it aloud.

"My name is number two." Something catches in your throat. "You know why? Because our father couldn't be bothered to give us actual names." Your eyes jerk to the floor. "He had mom do it."

You don't even remember your name. It was pretty, you think. You declined it anyway. Sometimes you regret it.

"Would anyone like something to eat?"

Yes actually, your quite hungry. You never ate much.

"No, it's okay, Mom," Vanya replied, comforts, says because no one else is going to. No one else is going to face the dreadful facts that make you want to scream and convulse and let the pain in your head explode into its full form.

She smiles.

"Oh, okay." Her red lipstick is relaxing. She looks the same.

Sometimes it can manage to convince you that your thirteen again.

"Look, you wanna pay your respects? Go ahead." You let out the smallest of groans and it's not because of Diego's words. It because your head really can't take the stress. You feel weak. "But at least be honest about the kind of man he was."

You stumble for a moment, legs wobbly. Your head feels like it's spinning on one of those spaceship rides at a theme park. Your feet crunch the leaves underneath you as you attempt to prevent yourself from falling into the mud.

You do, you always do. You never fall. Maybe once or twice but no, you never fall.

Five turns to you, confused? He left long before the lightheadedness became normality for you. No one questioned it anymore. No one asked if you were okay.

You come back into position. Straight, still, calm, silent.

"You should stop talking now."

You agree with your grumbly brother who could kill Deigo in a second.

Deigo gives Luther a look of pure distaste.

Your head pounds and noises are drowned out. It's just rain and the static of your lost words.

"You know, you of all people should be on my side here, Number One." 

"I am warning you."

It moves throughout your brain, punching and punching it to goo. Your ears feel like someone is crushing them and tears well up but never fall.

The rain washes everything away.

Undetectable.

"After everything he did to you?" his voice has so much bite your feel as if your fingers are in danger. "He had to ship you a million miles away."

"Deigo, stop talking."

It pounds and it pounds and hurts, it really hurts.

"That's how much he couldn't stand the sight of you!" A finger prods forcefully at Luther's chest you know that's it.

A punch is thrown and you feel it build up inside of you.

Maybe it's the fact that there all back or that dad is dead, but you're much more sensitive than you should be.

More punches are thrown and you take a step back just like everyone else.

_Ain't that just the way._

"Boys, stop this at once!"

Your head tries it's very best to unravel. It wants to let go and kill you if that's what would happen. You are like a walking time bomb and the fact that you've known it since you were a child makes it have a little less of a hit.

Something falls from your nose. Your hand is instinctively brought up to your face. Slowly, you press it to the wetness. You don't have a cold, you don't need a tissue.

You look down. It's red and it's thick and it's not supposed to exit your body on rainy days in the courtyard.

Everyone else's actions escape you nad the stumble back, breathing heavily. You try to relax. You try to do what mom told you to do and focus only on yourself.

Your hand is pressed back up to your nose and you feel a pair of eyes looking at you.

"Come on big boy!" You want to scoff but sounds only make it more real.

Grunts are like the whisps of the wind now. They come fast and smooth and all you can do is watch and let them consume you.

"Stop it!" You think it's Vanya. Who else but Vanya?

Your head continues to pulse and in it all, you turn to Five. He looks so calm. You, on the other, feel as if you're about to faint.

The words 'hit him,' fall muffled and repeatedly from clauses lips.

God, you need to sit down.

Deigo goes tumbling along the ground, closer and closer to the one monument ou have ever approved on this land.

You suck in a rasped breath.

Luther's coat blows in the wind and he doesn't notice the unnatural look it gives.

"Get, off, me," Diego gets out, strangled words being his only refuge. You sigh, the blood stops and all you have it the reminder that you could die any moment and no one would notice until your eyes were hazy and your limbs were still.

They both back off for a moment, painting, creating a distance that you knew would soon be retracted.

Five leaves, "We don't have time for this," he says.

You watch as he exits and you stay back. You let the board that is your body stand in the cold with only an umbrella and your uniform that you've been wearing for thirty years.

There is a shattering and you swear it's the same sound your heart makes.

Everything falls and everything breaks.

"Ohhh," Klaus drawls, not upset, more just Klaus.

"And there goes Ben's statue."

Allison leaves. Diego is still upset.

A knife is thrown, a sharp "Deigo no!" can be heard in Vanya's usually soft tone.

Luther is cut and you know it's all over.

You go inside after that. You don't wait anymore. You just leave and let your brain soak up the fact that Ben is dead, he has been for a while now.

The rain doesn't leave you even when you go inside.

____________

The lights behind you are nice. You like them. You always had. 

You glance at Kaus. You wonder why you decided to follow him. To follow them.

Instinct maybe.

Allison enters and she looks nice. You want to tell her that. To tell her that you really do love her. That you are thankful for her soft-toned words.

You say nothing.

"Wheres Vanya?" She walks forward and the question comes off more judging than you had expected.

You want to stay that she left. That she needed a break.

You say nothing.

"Oh, she's gone," Klaus states, tired, high, something along those incredibly blurred lines.

"That's unfortunate," Five states, bored maybe. It's sarcastic. You know that.

Of course, you know that.

"An entire square block. Forty-two bedrooms, 19 bathrooms, but no, not a single drop of coffee."

Whatever he's holding, you don't bother to look, clinks against the table. He's looking at Allison and you wonder why he can't look at you.

Is there a reason?

You hadn't thought of that before. Does he hate you? Did you do something? It seems unlikely since you have barely spoken to him. The only conversation you've had being short and generally meaningless.

_I didn't want your sour grapes anyway._

"Dad hated caffeine," Allison reasons. He did. You wonder why. All those late nights, frustrating statements, coffee might have helped him in some way.

You realize what your own thoughts are saying and your gut feels out of place in your own body.

"Well, he hated children, too, and he had plenty of us." Klaus's feet shake lightly as they rest on the edge of the table.

It doesn't affect you as much as it should as you decide that spending so much time with your brother either helps loosen you up or makes you in-sensitive to those things.

He laughs and you almost follow. The look everyone gives him stops you before a smile can even begin to form.

There is silence and in it you expect very little decisions to be made.

You are wrong and that doesn't surprise you.

Five has been gone for years.

"I'm taking the car." His bland mumbling attracts your focus.

He starts to walk away, hands neatly tucked in pockets, and Klaus inquires a simple "Where are you going?" The guitar in his lap is placed beside him as his posture raises in a questioning manner.

Five shoots him a look and the pause sparks something in your uncontrolled closet of thoughts.

"To get a decent cup of coffee," he slowly snapped back. You never know how to describe Five's words. They show nothing and yet they show everything they need to.

"I wanna come," you pipe up, the smile on your face resembling one of a toddler on Christmas morning.

Five looks at you. Most people would argue that this one is real but you still can't accept it.

"You do?" You feel his stare right above your eyes and you really just wish he would look into them.

You take a moment, squinting your eyes in what's supposed to be a challenging way but you realize it comes off much more constipated.

"Yes," you confirm, a small nod following the statement. 

Five sighs. You can't tell if it's distaste or frustration.

Most likely both.

You stand up and assume he's going to take you with him because you won't let him leave if he doesn't.

Although you know deep down that if he wanted to leave he could do it long before you had a single thought about stopping him.

"Can you even drive," Allison finally asks. You think it's a reasonable question but then when you turn to Five you know it really isn't.

"I know how to do everything." Anything less of a response and you might've egged him on a little more.

You feel a grip on your arm and then blue. A dizzy icy blue that reminds oh so much of the ocean takes you in and you close your eyes for a split second.

You're in a car and words don't escape you because Five is focusing on nothing but driving away from your family.

You wonder if he gets it. If he gets the fact that you missed him for seventeen years and now all he can do is question your intentions when you ask to come with him to get coffee.

____________

You listened to the ding of the bell. It surrounded you. Swallowed you with its constant ring because you were nothing but that. Nothing but something to be swallowed.

Five wasn't looking at you.

Griddy's looked the same. That didn't surprise you. Now, as both of you were young again, you felt as if no time had passed. Like the events that led to the tragedies never happened. It was just you, Five, and a near-empty doughnut shop.

You focused on the sounds around you. Not the boy next to you. No, you knew Five. You had seen enough of Five. It had been years since you had been here. Sitting at this counter waiting for the sweet release of nothingness.

Coffee. You wanted coffee.

The door opened. You didn't bother looking to see who it was. Five did that for you. he turned when he heard a sigh. You heard it too.

It was nothing anymore.

The man sat down next to Five. He looked nice. You felt bad.

Nice people get screwed over.

You would know better than anyone else.

The man exhaled, his fingers now working intently on writing something down.

Five sighed. His eyes kept drifting. A few times he caught sight of you. Sitting there, next to him. Staring at the space in front of you.

You did this thing sometimes, you would look at something, but it wouldn't be direct. Your eyes would be angled towards a wall, but you weren't looking at the wall. You were looking at the emptiness between you and the wall.

It wasn't a talent nor a curse. It was a side effect.

You heard a distant clinking. It sparked something inside of you. You were hungry.

You did not plan on eating.

Another door opened. A woman walked out.

She was pretty. The kind of pretty that didn't require good looks.

She sighed, just like everyone else in the room, and walked patiently towards you, none of you, one of you.

"Sorry, the sink was clogged." She chuckled. You wondered if it was from nervousness or just habit. People chuckled a lot because of habit. Observing was kinda your thing. "So, what'll it be?"

The words made you feel like you were intruding. There wasn't a reason for it, you just felt that way.

You wondered why.

"Uh, give me a chocolate eclair," the man said, decency a virtue you appreciated at the moment. 

"Mh-hmm. Sure," the woman replied, her pen scratching quickly against the pad in her hand. She sighed, inhaling slightly before speaking again.

"Can I get the kids some glasses of milk or..something?" 

You smile. It was a toothless gesture.

You hand rested in your palm ina nonchalant matter. 

_Kid._

Five scoffed faintly, amused maybe.

"The kid wants coffee. Black." He sounded like such an adult.

You wanted to heave out laughter.

The woman looked up from her pad, smiling, kindly. 

You wanted to hug her.

"Cute kid," she said, her arms moving outwards more a moment. A gesture of emphasis you assumed.

She then turned to you. The other kid. The one who hadn't said a single word. The one who smiled like a barbie doll and had limbs like them too.

She gestured her head towards you slightly, silently questioning what your order might be.

You thought about it for a moment. Asking yourself what you could possibly want to fill the emptiness in your stomach that you thought would leave. You thought it would be better when he got back.

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you though." Your voice still had the childish charm of a thirteen-year-old girl. It made the woman's expression soften. 

Awkwardness washed over everyone once more. In the silence, she turned to Five. The most disturbing smile forming on his lips.

Horror movies scared you. Although being someone who kills on the daily you would think you would be immune to these things. But no. Killing was different.

What scared you were the lies that so many of those smiles held.

"Okay," the woman mutters, sticking her pad back into her pocket just as nicely as it had been before.

Her exit from the radius or words was faux, you thought.

Five sighed again. 

You felt hot, then cold, then like everything had to be a dream.

He turned to the man, maybe, or maybe he didn't.

His eyes never looked at anyone in particular.

"Don't remember this place being such a shithole."

You choose not to state that you're offended. That the place isn't bad, it's relaxing. That you come here every day because it reminds you of when you only came as a group.

"I used to come here as a kid. Used to sneak out with my brothers and sisters," he pauses, reminiscing you assume. He speaks as if you aren't next to him. As if you aren't one of the people he speaks of somewhat fondly. "And eat doughnuts till we puked."

There is a pause. You can picture things in your mind that you haven't done so with for a while.

"Simpler times, huh?"

No, no you considered them much more complicated.

You always had your reasons that you didn't care to explain.

"Eh," the man starts, confused, baffled, feeling surreal maybe. "I suppose."

His voice is withered, old, calm. You liked calm voices. Ones that spoke lowly, quietly. They made you feel more at peace with your utter detest of life.

Five nods off, his gaze traveling from the table, then to you, and then to the table again.

You wish that once, just once, he would look at you.

Your shoulders scrunch inwards.

Something scratches at your throat. It hurts you more than pain.

You swallow it.

The woman walks towards you all. The man, realizing this action, pulls out his wallet. He grumbles faintly as he does so. You wonder why people do that.

The woman clears her throat. You wish you could do so as well.

"Here."

A cup of coffee is placed in front of Five. The woman spends a moment looking at him. Maybe she's questioning the order.

You would too.

"I got his," the man offers, the eclair he had ordered now in his grasp.

He holds out money. An amount of it that has never been specified. 

Money has never meant a thing to you.

"Thanks," Five says, his voice not deep, but low. You wonder how he does that.

This time Five does look at the man. It's not fully, but it's a glance.

You feel insignificant once more.

Five looks at the man and you recognize his stare. You recognize the way he examines and thinks about things more than you would expect him to.

"You must know your way around the city?" He's planning and oh boy do you know it.

There isn't much of a pause, or maybe here is. Maybe your too spaced out to notice anything. 

Or maybe your too tuned in to perceive things normally.

"I hope so. I've been driving it for 20 years." tHe man doesn't sound particularly interested in the conversation. You don't expect him too either.

Five isn't particularly interesting when you meet him in a doughnut shop when the sky is dark and the streets are fleeting.

"Good. I need an address."

____________

Five tucks a piece of paper in his pocket. He does it as if he's older. As if he's an adult and he has the right to sigh ad act like his hard day at work was just too excruciating.

The realize the obvious and turn to the other side.

He sighs, taking his coffee in his hands once more.

He never takes a sip.

His eyes dart to the wonderful reflective surface of the bell on the counter. You always wanted one of those bells. You would put it on your nightstand and pretend you lived a life where you could ring useless bells and no one would stop you.

You don't see what he sees.

You know it though.

In times when everything around you is suspicious you look for the loudest thoughts and you zero in.

You knew what was going on.

You hear distant creaks that become not so distant as the friendly aura of armed men encircles you.

"Hmm," he pauses, for dramatic effect you assume. "That was fast." You agree. Didn't he just get here? Didn't you just get him back after seventeen years that reminded you oh so much of the disposal of your father's ashes? "I thought I'd have more time before they found me."

"Okay," the voice is deep and it doesn't hit you the right way. Maybe that's also because a gun is being pressed to your head ever so lightly. "So let's all be professional about this, yeah?"

You dart your eyes to Five, not because you're scared, but because you want to see what his face looks like.

It really has been a while.

"On your feet and come with us. They want to talk."

You want to both laugh and cry.

You wonder if there going to threaten you. If they're going to say that they will kill you if he's doesn't comply. You then wonder if you would let them.

"I've got nothing to say." His head tilts to the side. He's calm. So are you. 

Does he remember how calm you have to be?

"It doesn't have to go this way." It does, you know it does. "You think I want to shoot some kids? Go home with that on my conscience?"

You've done worse and your conscience is fine.

You wonder what he's talking about.

You flip and you flip until disorientation if your norm and the sky falls from its place up in the atmosphere.

You feel strange, excited, happy for once in your life and you want it to end but you also want it to last forever.

"Well, I wouldn't worry about that." You know his ques, and after all these years, they seem to still be in use. "You won't be going home."

You find it funny how this _would_ be intimidating to people. He would be scary because from the moment he says something you know he's a psychopath.

Five's words didn't phase you much. He could tell. Not that he was looking at you, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the vague bits of your movement.

He saw near to nothing.

You let your eyes drift to his hand as it inched closer to the butter knife that was neatly placed in front of him.

You sighed.

It was such a nice doughnut shop, despite what Five said about it.

Five's hand tensed around the utensil. A familiar paralyzing blue flashes beside you.

Gunshots fired like raindrops in a storm.

Your heart continued to beat at a steady rate. The noises in your ear couldn't find a way to bother you.

You narrowed in your thoughts. Listening, focusing. Most of your power was used in silence. Your mind blank, free from your own thoughts.

_Hit him!!! You can do it, he's just a kid!!!_

You wanted to laugh.

Guns faced your direction. You ducked. 

It wouldn't have taken much to get hit. You could've died. If Five wasn't busy killing people he would be shouting for you to move.

Screaming, desperate really. Something inside your gut reminded you that you _could_ die.

That, despite Five's careless glance, it would hurt him. It would hurt him to watch you bleed out on the floor with your eyes closed. Closed because you welcome darkness. You always have.

Your body acts purely on instinct. It slumps in the chair, melting quickly to the ground. Ears cover your ears, well aware of the damage such loud shots could do.

Old you would help Five. She would stand up tall, grab some guys gun and knock him out with it. But you, current you, didn't do those things anymore.

No, not unless she had to.

Missions had gotten easy. Luther when alone most of the time when dad was still sending you two one them.

After it all, the losses and fights, you became minuscule. You were like the friend that is always there. The one you don't care about because they are just as normal as breathing.

Music played in your head, it calmed you. It made the whole endeavor almost like an intricate show.

Something to marvel at.

You scrambled along the counter. Your knees became almost immediately sore, being now bare as your socks drooped down your legs.

There you were, annoyed with the redness of your knees as bullets flew the air like bombs all but a few feet above you.

Hands pressed like flippers against the cold ground as your body rushed to the other side of the counter.

Sometimes, most of the time, always, you felt like a speck of dirt.

A tiny speck of dirt that no one can see. No one can care if they step on you because they would have no idea. Some sweep you up and toss you in a bin. Some ignore you, going on without a second glance. And some look at you and grimace, not even having the energy to get rid of you.

Maybe Vanya was right, in away. You deserved all the pity you had gotten. All of the talk about poor number eight. She has to deal with so much. Her love life is such a sad thing really. It sounded miserable, you liked it that way.

All over miserable was better than happy on the outside.

Your body spun, your back hitting the hard counter, breaths leaving you in an uneven fashion. 

It's wasn't fear. No. If anything, it was excitement.

You scramble. Your limbs move like rockets and your hands slap the tile like flippers. The noise of your skin hitting the floor is nothing when compared to the scream. The grunts. The sickening sound of heads twisted and bodies collapsed.

Five is in his element.

You're happy for him. You really are.

_"Did it ever bother you," you ask the wind, knowing very well it can not respond. "Did the screams ever bother you? Because sometimes I think they should bother me."_

_There is another silence. And then another._

_There were many more after that. You counted them at first. You counted every single pause were a simple sentence could be spoken. You imagined his voice, his response, all the millions of things he could've said to you. All of the speeches or encouragement, laughable snaps, quips. The one true response eludes you though._

_He's gone, you think, why do you always believe otherwise?_

Your back hits the counter. It shields you from the fight. It protects you.

It makes you feel alone again.

Sounds attempt to drown out your thoughts. To trick you into thinking that there is more now.

That you have Five. You have action, that maybe you should take advantage of it all.

You don't move.

You imagine what it looks like. What the death Five brings upon to the world would look like if you just pushed yourself up a little bit over the counter. If you got on your knees and let the top of your head come into view.

The urge to risk yourself just for the magic of it all almost takes you over.

"Shit." You never swear. It's a warning. You want to fight. You want to take action because you never do.

You stay still and you don't say a word. Words meant opinions. Opinions were things you weren't supposed to possess.

The gunshots stop. Silence fills the room followed by a few grunts of pain.

Lights flash above you and the faint noise of Five's tired breaths make it's way to your ears.

You shuffle your feet, your hands pressing against the back of the counter as you spin around. Slowly, but fast enough, your inch upwards. The scene soon comes into your line of sight and dead bodies don't phase you now.

You watch, carefully. Five looks dreadful. You want to hug him.

He grabs his tie, you assume there is a reason it was around someone else neck.

Five is different than your other siblings. Most of them, maybe, would think twice.

Or maybe that's just your sunny disposition.

There is something so certain about the way he walks. It's like this pattern that you've only seen on him before.

You study it. You tell yourself its weird that you focusing on his walk but the thought soon leaves you.

It's been far too long to be worrying about petty things.

He fixes his tie. It's such a manicured action and yet it seems almost aggressive now.

You realize that if he saw the absent stare your giving him it might be, in some situations, considered gawking.

You jerk your eyes in another direction.

The sound of bones cracking in agony almost passes you by.

Five sighs, things speed up once again at his next movements don't register in your head.

Your eyes are trained on the windows. The dark of night seeps into the room and you admire it with a certain passion.

Your head won't shut up.

Five sighs once more, the action of something being placed on the counter pulling you out of your darkly induced trance. You look at it. You furrow your eyebrows because your thinking, it's a normal thing.

Why does everything feel so different?

You observe. You deduct and you come to the most reasonable, and probably obvious conclusion.

It's a tracker.

Your hand jolts outwards and it caches onto something before it can dive into Five's skin.

He looks at you, impressed. Your actions had always been so well-timed.

Most people just assume it's your powers.

You don't like using your powers on Five.

"That's gonna hurt," you murmur, finally realizing what he's about to do. Your eyes drift to his and he doesn't respond right away. He just stares. Caught in this world where you are speaking to him again.

You are there and he can't possibly be supposed to believe it.

"I know," he drawls, not drawls, states in a fashion that makes you want to dig your nails into your palms and let them bleed.

"Of course you know." The words come off as sarcastic and you make a quick attempt to add to them. "You know everything, right?"

Nope, still sarcastic.

Five huffs at you. Your grip on the knife in his hand is still going strong.

He's determined.

The weapon leaves your grasp and you want to cry.

It's not the blood that would come out of Five's arm, nor is it the pain he would feel.

It's the fact that he still isn't _really_ looking at you.

You want desperately to catch his eye. And it's not the kind of 'oh look at my mini skit' thing. You want the boy who had spent thirteen years getting it impossibly close to, the one you had told almost everything to, to just say something nice.

To give you a glance with some sort of pleasure carried in it.

The insignificance of your presence twists your gut and ties into a bow.

Five hadn't realized that he wasn't the only one who feels different than when you were kids.

Things change. The wind switches direction daily. The sun sets and the moon rises.

Lights flip off and sleep takes over the tired brain.

You watch, eyes narrowing in, as the blade dives into Five's skin.

Your eyes turn to slits once more and you force the grimace back inside.

He bites his lip. Air is held in his lungs, not daring to escape for the risk of a noise, of pain maybe, coming along with it.

He's Five.

That crap is nothing to him.

Blood leaks from his body. You want it to go back in. You want to cut to stop bleeding and you want him to be content again.

Although really, was he ever content?

The knife is discarded. Placed somewhere carelessly in the mess of bodies that someone, not you, will have to clean up.

Poor Griddy's

Five takes a breath. It's short, he's preparing. You know what he's about to do and you want to shout something at him.

You want to scream at the top of your lungs or announce that you hate Kennedy for no apparent reason.

You have no idea why that's your go-to interruption idea.

His hand enters the wound. Blood is gone and it's only pain,

Not your pain. No. Definitely not.

It was Five's pain.

The logical movement of his skin as his hand pulled out the tracker wasn't disgusting to you.

Should it have been?

_"A girl can dream," you breathe, dreamy glances are briefly shared between you and one of the extremely interesting walls of Five's bedroom._

_"Of what? Snapping necks and exploding brains?" Five raises an eyebrow and you smile._

_It's real._

_He smiles back._

_"Precisely."_

The tracker is taken out of his arm.

You sigh. Five doesn't and you wonder if it's because he simply doesn't want to or because you did it first.

Darkness clouds your thoughts once more.

"Does it hurt?" The question is no way directed towards the cut in his arm he notices that.

"Yeah, yeah it hurts like hell Eight, are you high or something?"

He doesn't catch on.

You don't find the topic worth explaining.

"Do you have to be so vulgar?"

You, talking to him, just like it's normal again. Like your both thirteen and he's reading to you every night because he wants to. Because he found it nice to care for once.

You want to cry.

"Do you have to be such a wimp?"

You don't take that to great offense but you stay quiet anyway.

You missed him a lot. To put it simply, you were sad, you should be happy now. You should be happy that he's back and that you have him now.

He's in front of you and all he can seem to do is insult you.

"I missed you, a lot." You know that your words should be grumbling or crude, but they aren't. There kind, soft, quiet. Small enough that guilt hinted in Five's eyes as you say them.

He looks at you and maybe, this time, it's real.

"I missed you too."

You smile.

Five almost smiles back.

He sees you, smiling, whispering, coughing, blood-so so much blood. He sees your forcefully shut eyes and your scarred hand limp on the rubble.

He doesn't return the gesture.

____________

"I think I'm gonna just walk for a while." Five presses his lips together, thin, concerned, frustrated.

"You sure?" Are you sure? No, no you're not sure. He's obviously been away for far too long.

Never ask number Eight is she's sure.

"I'm-" you pause, green eyes mesmerize you and it's hard to pull yourself away from them. "I just need some air. This whole thing is giving me quite the headache."

You chuckle, smiling like nothing is wrong when everything is.

His eyes widen, maybe it's realization, maybe it's fear.

"Are-are you alright?"

He furrows his brows and you realize that he hasn't seen you in seventeen years. That things have changed, you have changed, uncontrollable migraines are something all your other siblings are insensitive to.

Five cares and you melt.

"Fine, just fine," you reply, it's reassuring and that makes him blank again.

He leaves for the car and you watch him walk away.

Darkness follows his absence.

____________

You walk on the dark streets and you have not a single care.

Watching Five fight always made you smile. It was the nimbleness. The way he moved with such agility and yet you look at him and see nothing but a stick legged boy. Deception had always intrigued you.

Life had gone so fast today. Your dad died, and that was the least stressful part of it. Now, and only now, it was quiet. 

You let it consume you.

You let it take you in when no one else would.

Everything falls off the shelf again.

"Eightie?"

Your head started to attempt to decipher the voice. The name was on the tip of your tongue.

It bothered you.

It always did nowadays.

"God?" It was a joke, most likely.

There was a chuckle and erupted from behind you. Butterflies flapped against the walls of your stomach and you swore you had felt them before.

A pressure appears on your shoulder. You flinch.

"Hey hey, it's just me." The voice knows you. No one ever knows you. The confusion in your mind grows.

You spin around in a flurry of jumbling thoughts and questions that you hope will soon be answered.

Something clicks once you see the person in front of you. The curly red hair that you remember once running your fingers through mindlessly. The round glasses that didn't see so oversized anymore. The smile that was so all-knowing but not even a little bit arrogant.

"Oh, hi," you murmur, knowing that anything more would wet your eyes quite noticeably.

"Wow I mean it's been-" he pauses, trying to count the years. The years that you had continued to be forever sad.

Loneliness was your current content.

"Twelve years," you state, sadness overtaking your response.

He was so much taller than you now. So much older.

Grown. Something your body was incapable of.

"Look, I know you probably don't want to see me but-" you cut him off.

Such reserved statements aren't enough for you anymore.

"Charlie, no, of course, I want to see you." You smile. His face loses some of its previous stiffness.

He sighs, looking at you like he always did. You remember when you would find a way to get to his house every Saturday night. How you would sit in his room and watch _Buffy The Vampire Slayer_ until your eyes felt dry.

His touch is all too familiar now.

You don't flinch as he pushes a piece of hair behind your ear.

It's such a simple action. But the love portrayed through it bothers you for some reason. All thoughts of relationships after the age of sixteen sickened you. It just didn't seem right.

You were forever young in others' eyes.

You couldn't subject anyone to that torture.

"You look the same," he says, his voice soft, happy because that's how you make people feel.

You share happiness. Although sometimes you wonder if it can only cause you to lose yours.

"You look thirty."

He laughs. You don't have the strength to follow.

Your killing yourself. Every sound he makes it a stab to your heart and you want to run far away from here.

Memories attack your heart like it's a fresh new wound and words are anything but a bandage.

"I'm actually engaged. Getting married next year." 

Being the second time you've been stabbed today, like anyone else, your starting to feel a little sore.

"Oh."

Your smile fades, only slightly.

You don't think Charlie notices.

Your past is something you often try to forget. You sweep it under the carpet. You lock it away in a box and hope that the box doesn't get too full. It's what keeps your cheeks dry at night.

First loves are always the strongest. You keep reminding yourself that.

The conversation doesn't last much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be truthful, this chapter a whirlwind. 
> 
> Sorry about that.
> 
> And double sorry for taking so long to post this.
> 
> Also, even though no one really reads this, I would reallyyyyy appreciate it if you could comment just so I know where I should go with his story. 
> 
> What I mean by that is I can keep it like it is so far, not blatantly romantic but not strictly platonic either. 
> 
> So just a slow build that doesn't build too much.
> 
> Or, if you want, I can make sure that by the end it would be definitely considered romantic.
> 
> It's really just opinion and I'm not sure what anyone wants to read. It's always a mix I guess.
> 
> I would just really appreciate your input!
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> Have a spectacular day!!!!


	8. like we did when spring began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate memories blind you.
> 
> Five has three eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have, if smarter, spent more time on this chapter as an attempt to weave it into my schedule.
> 
> I did not and I apologize profusely for that.
> 
> Nonetheless, it is done with, I'm assuming, some much-expected spelling mistakes because no one is perfect and I hate proofreading when Grammarly is being a bitch.

Your pencil scribbled frantically against the paper.

The words meant something. You knew that. You knew that there was a reason you were writing them down.

Everything meant something and something meant everything and-and-and you were stuck.

You often wrote poetry when the sky was dark like this.

When the moonlight shone through your window like a curtain of darkness. You loved it. You really did.

You weren't sure what you loved more than the curtain.

"Hey."

Your pencil slipped from your grasp. The little wooden stick fell to the ground with a clang that resonated in your ears like a shrill scream.

Him, right? It was him, wasn't it?

You shook. Visibly shook.

What was this-this...poison?

Had someone hit you on the head really hard or something? Were you dying? It felt like it.

Why had his voice entered your mind so many times over the years? Why had his perpetual tone scratched its way up onto the surface over and over until you couldn't manage to breathe?

"Hey, why are you acting so weird?" 

It's not you. It's him. It's him and his smug coffee addicted smile. You hate it. You want to murder it because it doesn't leave you.

_It never leaves._

You feel almost, indescribably, ill.

It's so hazy. Your head won't move, eyes trained to the desk in front of you as if that's all that exists.

Do you even have a desk?

It's not some janky thing you could've purchase for twenty bucks at a garage sale. It's fancy and you soon realize, that despite your demeanor, fancy isn't you.

Why can't you turn around?

It's quite obviously different than it normally would be. Five wouldn't stand in your doorway as your whole body froze up 

He would say something. He would ask you what was wrong and place a supposedly comforting hand on your shoulder as if it might help you in some way.

His touch was terrifying to you. Not because it was him, that would be ridiculous. 

He only did it when everything was going to hell and he was worried you wouldn't be able to crawl your way back up to the surface.

"I don't get it, why are you so weird?"

It's a fear that forces tear out of your eyes. A fear that you have only called upon when everything else seemed much less threatening. A fear that you, in his eyes, were all but a creature to observe and try to decipher in its estranged ways.

You were odd and Five could only think as such.

You never cry. You can't cry. You told yourself it was impossible and yet water pours out of you at an inhuman rate as your knees hug to your chest and distant screams are muffled by a silent gaze from the unseen doorway.

Five would never do this, you convince yourself, he would never hate you.

"Are you alright, Eight, are you alright? Why do you cry so much? It's stupid."

You scream.

"Idiotic. Honestly."

Shakes rack your whole body and the vibrating becomes inevitably. Tears seep through your skin and sting your bones like knives against the meaty flesh. They dig into your face and scar you, them mark you so everyone will see them, everyone will see the pain.

Sobs continue even when you don't have the energy to cry any longer.

"Are you there Eight, can you hear me?" There is, in between the lesser now soft-spoken words, an almost death-bringing chuckle. "Why are you screaming?"

Your whole body is cold, water washes over you and now you are wet. Wet, cold, and scarred because Five doesn't take a single step forward as you continue to burn yourself with your own years.

Your head, despite its fogginess, feels perfectly clear.

" _I don't want to hear you Eight."_

____________

Cries move softly around you.

They circulate and get louder as time goes on, how much time? You don't know.

They kill you to hear and it leaves you empty, that feeling. The knowing that Five was off somewhere and so was everyone else. But you, you were passed out somewhere that you had no memory of passing out at.

A side-effect of having an over-sensitive head had always been the tendency to fall asleep with little to no warning.

The cries become more frequent for a moment. Your eyes move in their closed state. Your body moves and you let out an incoherent groan.

You hit something and you become completely aware.

The cries created a familiar realization and your body flew up, hitting the arm of the couch in the most unpleasant way you could ever think of. 

Klaus's fast and heavy breaths surround the pound on your head and pain is nothing of your concern.

Although it isn't anything normally either.

Your back hurts and you look down.

You slept on the _fricking_ floor.

The uncomfortable, hardwood, thinly carpeted, floor.

Kaus takes another breath, an almost relived 'oh' leaving his lips in a tireless fashion that you recognize much as his signature tone.

You, being you of all people, don't move because your jaw is slacked and your body is frozen as your dream enters your mind once more.

It was a dream, you hope, knowing that it didn't happen anyway. You lifted a hand to your face, ignoring the "Shut your piehole, Ben," that followed the profuse digging through a bag that resembled oh so much desperateness inside you.

Your fingers traced your cheek. There were, as you could only infer, no deep divets that would lead you to the pain you felt from your tears and they dug like the devil's nails into your skin.

The lines of agony you had expected to come from the experience were as of none and your face, as always, looked soft and kind as you had left it.

Your hand drops gallantly to your side and you prob yourself as Klaus himself comes into view.

You don't hit your head this time and it comes with a nice reassuring feeling of rest.

"Said with love," follows Klaus's previous statement and you smile again. He kisses the air, palm gesturing toward where you assume the dead man is sitting.

You missed Ben.

Sometimes, more than sometimes, when you could decipher where he was based on Klaus's flared movements you would try your very best to look at him. You couldn't know for sure if you were making a fool of yourself or spot on, but the idea of him looking back at you was enough to make you do it again. 

Klaus continued to search.

He stood, maybe finding something. You're not really sure how any of it works anyway.

You smile.

"Can't smoke eggs." A foot is placed on the coffee table, the invisible conversation alluding you as Klaus ignites a small fire in the cage of his own hands.

You inch closer to conciseness, the tired night becoming a general blur as you think back to it un-fondly.

Five was bleeding and for some reason, you hadn't helped like usual.

Klaus hurried around the room, his footsteps not necessarily thoughtful to your state as he made his way around the decorated couch in something that wasn't exactly considered clothing.

"One of these has got to be gold plated, right?" Klaus searched the shelves and displays of the room while you, being in a complete state of exhaustion, squinted as to figure out why you fell asleep on the _bloody floor._

Sometimes you wish you were British because that would mean you wouldn't be here on the floor with a sore back and foul memories.

There was a sniffing, you assumed one of the many noises Klaus made when he was desperate for something other than soberness.

There was, after the distant sniff, a clear of a through that was surely too familiar to be a creak of the wood or a whisper of the wind.

Pogo was, to put it crudely, pissed.

"Christ on a cracker!"

You _almost_ laugh.

Klaus turns, hand on his chest because it's a gesture of surprise and Kaus seems to do it a lot.

You turn to the monkey and wave the smallest weakest little wave. He only smiles at you lightly for a moment.

He has no wrongs to set with you. You are perfect. You sit and you smile and you say little because little makes you safer.

"Pogo?" You don't know why he has to ask.

"My apologies, Master Klaus." He isn't sorry and you know that as you examine his demeanor. 

You wonder where Five is.

Klaus stands now, away from the shelves and away from the objects that had intrigued your father enough for him to put them on display for all the few who entered this home to see.

"I have a query for you."

He sounds fancy and you want to giggle.

"Oh," Klaus prompts, he knows what the monkey is going to ask and you can see the way he waves the cigarette in his hand through the air in a way that makes his forced calm differ from the truth.

"Items from your father's office have gone missing." You think back to when you sat in a dark room with Klaus as Allison made hesitant conversation and the only pleasant joke was interrupted. "In particular, an ornate box with pearl inlay." It sounds manicured and delightful. You know almost exactly what he's talking about.

"Really?" The cigarette ghosts over his lips. "You don't say."

"Any idea where it went?"

He looks, bewildered, all-knowing but hiding like an absolute champ. You sigh, thinking back to the only bit of conversation you remember having after the coffee shop. How it could only be the one thing that led you to wander until it got too late to wander anymore. How you stumbled inside and fell asleep because you were too emotionally tired to stand anyway.

"No," his head gives the lightest shake. "No, no. No idea." He sighs, hand flicking outwards with his next words. "Sorry.

There is only the smallest pause before a not very thought out yet perfectly planned "Drop dead," leaves his lips and you get used to bad sibling relationships all over again.

_Low blow._

"Would you shut up," Klaus hushes. You have spent your whole life smiling, Ben usually smiled back.

"Excuse me," Pogo interrupts, not as confused as you might have expected him to be. Although, to be honest, Pogo is rarely confused.

People tend to trust him and that trust ignites talking, talking ignites secrets, secrets meant lies, and lies meant, as always, pain.

You were in pain.

"Pogo, I didn't mean you, I just... I-" He's walking and you scramble to your feet. The floor, as you soon realized, was not a chair nor a place to be at this moment. "You know, there's been a lot of stuff I've been dealing with."

Pogo's cane clicks on the floor.

"Just a lot of memories coming up. All those good times." He takes more steps and you wish he would've left something on other than the bright leopard print underwear that Pogo must despise right now. "Well, not so much good times as really awful terrible depressing times."

You agree wholeheartedly and stay quiet.

"The contents of that box are," he thinks and you can feel the repressed anger. "Priceless." You doubt that. "Were they to find their way back to the office, whoever took it would be absolved of any blame or consequences."

Your elbows are now propped on the back of the couch, the piece of furniture idly separating you from the conversation. Your chin rests calmly in your palms and you watch. Watch and listen and pretend you as much too tired to understand a thing.

"Oh, well, lucky bastard."

Pogo clicks his tongue. Klaus looks regretful.

"Indeed."

You take a breath and leave and the room as if you had never been there in the first place.

____________

You weren't one to eavesdrop. It was rude, which was completely out of the norm for you, considering how much you cared.

But now, and only now, the quiet conversation between Vanya and Five brought to his room as if it was a pie and you were a cartoon pig.

Dear god the analogies.

Vanya didn't see you, maybe she didn't want to. People tend to ignore the ones who are easy to ignore.

Your head peaks through the doorway, it's subtle and no one really is caught by your silent interruption.

You watch, sneakily apparently, as Klaus stumbles out of the closest in such a careless fashion that you wonder about the welfare of his soul to the very core of it all.

Five gives him a look of pure distaste and you _almost_ laugh.

"That's so-"Klaus starts, brutally interrupted by the clattering of more miscellaneous objects you continued to wonder why Five owned. "...touching, all that stuff about family and Dad and time." There is a certain charm that Five can't get used to, you feel sad for him about it sometimes. "Wow!"

Klaus's direction is all but average as he wanders towards the back of the bedroom like nothing matters and he's a mindless zombie who doesn't get to choose these things.

"Would you shut up? She'll hear you." Five's warning is harsh, a whisper that is so sharp your sure it could cut the guilt around you like its construction paper.

Why hasn't anyone noticed you?

"I'm moist," Klaus replies, His voice soft and elegant like a daydream that would distract you completely in the middle of a very important math test.

"I thought I told you to put on something professional." It's a jab and Klaus you take lightly, mostly because you agree, but you add to it anyway.

"I think he looks cool," you mumble, don't mumble, say like it's normal to be walking in a conversation such as this. You are now in the room. The one you hadn't dared enter since Five left.

People would assume you slept there all the time. Sitting in his empty bed and trying to remember just exactly how his voice sounds.

You sat in your own bed and didn't need to remember his voice because it would appear haunting in your own vivid dreams.

"Yeah!" Klaus's agreement with your abrupt statement fazes you not. "This is my nicest outfit." 

Five decides, reluctantly, to turn to you before considering Klaus's suggestion. 

You, being you, are smiling at him like this is fine. Like you are fine and he is fine and the world isn't going to end like he knows it is.

He hasn't told you that yet, has he?

"What are you doing?"

It's a question you don't take lightly like the insults Five throws at Klaus daily. You take it heavily because you don't know how to answer it.

"Avoiding dog whistles, although that's sort of a constant thing," the last words come out a bare murmur.

It's not a lie. 

Five sighs, brows knitting together and concerned eyes boring into the little space right between yours.

It bothers you.

You assume the dog whistles statement is not the thing he's trying to decipher right now as he searches your demeanor.

He sighs and, like all his other sighs, it is coated with a million layers of frustration and annoyance that has been created by the very people he must now use to complete his elaborate ask you have no information on whatsoever.

"We'll raid the old man's closet." The words are followed by the lightest shake of Five's head as his eyes leave your forehead and travel to Kalus's, you might even say, actual eyes.

This, and only this, you do not take even a bit lighty. He, obviously at this point, it avoiding looking at you directly for a reason. A reason that you, as a nervous person who decided not to talk at the exact wrong times, will not ask.

"Whatever, as long as I get paid." Klaus follows the obvious direction Five had headed in, exiting the bedroom that you used to stand in the doorway of when it was late and you were lonely.

The image of pure despair.

"When the job is done," Five says lowly, he is not happy and that is quite apparent from his tone of voice, the way he groveled around, the constant scowl that you considered to fit him much better than a smile.

You let them walk past you, staying glued to the doorway because if you walked into that bedroom you were quite sure you would slam your head into the wall.

It was strange, really, that you wanted to come. You didn't want to ask. Mostly, well only, because it would sound childish. Raising your hand politely and requesting to join them on their trip of infinite regret.

You stay silent.

"Okay, but just so we're clear on the finer details," Klaus starts, his hand gestures in the air lightly and you can't help but mentally applaud the flair. "I just gotta go into this place, and pretend to be your dear old dad, correct?"

_Spicy._

You have no idea why that's the word that came to mind and you scold yourself for thinking it.

"Yeah. Something like that," Five breaths, fed up, distasteful towards his idiotic brother who once stayed up all night with you and listened patiently as you rambled on about your mixed feeling of dread and confusion after yet another door had closed in your face.

The snappy attitude starts to bother you a little.

"What's our cover story?"

It's a good question, you think. Five, being his arrogant self, thinks differently.

"What are you talking about," Five asks, it's not harsh nor is it real though. It's just a question of someone who wants to get the banter out of the way so he can focus on the crap he knows he's going to have to deal with at some point.

You look down at your hand.

"I mean, was I really young when I had you? Like, 16? Like, young and-" he takes a breath, brings his hands to his chest a ditzy sort of way. You move your fingers in and out, examing the way your skin stretches along with the unsightly marks on it. Klaus continues. "Terribly misguided?"

"Sure." His posture is slouched, head tilted, demeanor bored, maybe a hint of regret one might catch if they cared a significant amount more than you seemed to at the moment.

You keep your eyes focused on your hand.

"Your mother, that slut," Klaus snarled, it was faux but you, again, appreciated the flair.

It was quite obvious, you started to think, maybe it was one of the things people would notice first about you.

"Whoever she was," he mumbled, it adds nothing. "We met at-" he thinks, eyes off to the side and you don't look up to see anything more now. You look down, down at your strategies and down at the actions that you never once desired to take back. "The disco," he decides, there is a chuckle that follows. "Okay, remember that."

Five, not particularly interested in Klaus's made up monologue, raises his eyebrows in the question of everyone's sanity frankly.

Klaus snaps his finger, swaying as if there isn't something strange going on inside the girl behind him. "Oh, my God, the sex was amazing." His voice lowers as the last words are uttered, his tone slowing dramatically. 

"What a disturbing glimpse into that thing you call a brain."

You were paying attention the whole time and when you look up the conversation saves into your mental database as if your body is one big computer.

"Don't make me put you in time-out," Klaus points. It's a joke. You don't laugh.

You do, despite the underlying terror in the back of your head, follow them down the stairs.

____________

The building looks like it would be cold, you know it should be, but it's not. It's not a lower temperature than any other building in the city and you still have no reason to justify the chill in your heart.

"Like I said to your son earlier, any information about the prosthetics we build is strictly confidential." The implication that Five, quite idiotically, barged into the building and demanded information is near laughable to you. "Without the client's consent, I simply can't help you."

Klaus looks worn and you look joyful. Five is angry and the man at the desk is just trying to keep up the basic rules of client confidentiality that every intelligent person would want in a business.

"Well, we can't get consent if you don't give us a name." It's the way Five hisses out his words tends to intrigue you. The idea, for even a small moment, of acting so rude to such a reasonable person would sicken you to act on. For Five, of course, he is not sickened nor is he disturbed.

Although, truthfully, everyone is better at you when it comes to these things.

"Well, that's not my problem." His tone is quiet, his hands resting together in the sort of way you expect a teacher to do. Calm, authoritative in its simplicity. 

You like all the glass. It's pretty.

"Sorry, now there's really nothing more I can do, so-" the man is interrupted and you raised a much-expecting eyebrow.

"And what about _my_ consent," Klaus inquires, he sounds like he knows what he's doing and you don't bother taking a peek at his plan.

"Excuse me," the man, the one who got to sit in the lovely glass room all day, replies.

You smile as if you hadn't been doing it before.

"Who gave you permission," he takes in a shaky breath, it's nothing like the one you heard this morning. The flair. "To lay your hands....on my son."

Five gives him a look of, all to say, confusion. You aren't confused. You don't know what he's doing, but you aren't confused.

There is an in unison "what" that you don't join in on.

You stand in the back like your all but a teacher assistant observing a class from afar so you can take notes and someday fulfill your dream of helping children learn about-

"You heard me."

"I didn't touch your son," the, extremely lucky, man clarifies. You feel bad but you figure there's nothing you can do about anything anyway.

"Oh really," Klaus drawls, all-knowing in his constant state of honeyed words and wobbly gestures. He sits up, leaning in like he's about to drop a bomb no one could possibly be ready for. "Well, then how did he get that swollen lip, then?"

You let out the quietest of enticed chuckles.

"He doesn't have a swollen-"

Your smile turns from toothless to the happiest looking thing on earth as your heart races like a roadrunner.

Personally, even though it sounds psychopathic, you love the sound of a good punch.

Five lets out a grunt that deafens your smile an un-noticeable amount. You feel much freer than you did when you were wandering the streets at night, waiting to be shot or mugged like any normal person would expect to be.

"And how did she," he spins to look at you, peacefully having a jolly good time watching the event from the corner. "How did she get that handprint of her cheek."

You are beyond enticed, this is pure exhilaration.

He hits you, and you do try your very best to stop smiling.

It doesn't fully work, the glint in your eyes giving away the hysterical nature of your personality.

You like the pain, you like the thrill, you like the terrified look in the man's eyes as he stares at Klaus as if this has to be a dream and he desperately wants to wake up.

There was a sharp inhale and at that moment, your eyes darted to Five. He was, quite plainly, unhappy he was just punched in the face.

"I want it, Name, please. Now."

He leaned, the flair exploded in front of you and you couldn't help but let your smile come back full force like it never left you in the first place.

"You're crazy," the man accused. You'd been called crazy once. You were sixteen and you sucked the life out of a man as if you needed it to survive. He looked you in the eyes, writhing in agony, and said 'God, you really are crazy.'

He died two seconds later and you didn't manage to flinch.

"You got no idea."

The heavy breathing of the man increased, glued to his seat because being immobile probably not a big issue at the moment since he wasn't even the one getting hurt.

Klaus looked down. The man looked like he was about to implode. 

Your head was perfectly clear.

He let his hand grasp on object, bringing it up to his face in such a dramatic way that it could only mean more of the flair you had dying to see in Klaus since Five had arrived.

"'Peace on Earth" That's so sweet." His, just like it was as normal, was breathy and light. His face scrunched in a forceful way, a way that made you cringe for his own deflated wellbeing.

There is a crash that draws your attention only to Klaus and elicits the smallest of reactions. As always, people would chalk up your in-sensitive look to your powers. How you must've known what he was going to do because you can read his mind and anticipate his every move. 

That's why nothing surprised you.

_That's why._

He groans out of pure pain as his hands quiver around his face. Your hand inactively reaches out in a mindless way that no one seems to care about. He yells although you wouldn't describe it as a yell. It's more of a shout of insanity.

"God, that hurt!"

Klaus is still un-sanitary and paralyzed. Lance, the lucky man whose name you had never been told, once resorting to finding it through your own means, reaches for the phone like his life in most indeed on the line.

He brings it up to his ear, shaking with fear and no apparent subtlety as he does so.

"I'm calling secur-" grunts drown out words and Klaus' outstretched arm reminds you of Frankenstein's monster as it grasps the phone in the lucky man's hand. Klaus, not to your surprise, wins and takes the thing up to _his_ ear now.

"What are you doing?" The demanding tone is nothing coming from the lucky man and you smile.

"There's been an assault," his arms move inwards and he resembles something of a pouting child. "In Mr. Big's office, and we need security, now. Schnell!" The phone clatters to the desk in a fashion that just emphasizes his overdramatic mannerisms.

Klaus sighs.

"Now here's what's gonna happen, Grant," he leans in, threatening because people like him always are. They have an edge that slices their innocence like a machete, a machete that takes away the pain and replaces it with nonsense words and even more nonsense actions.

"It's," he is frozen. "Lance."

You were spot on and you never doubted yourself.

"In about 60 seconds, two security guards are gonna burst through that door, and they're gonna see a whole lot of blood, and they're gonna wonder, "What the hell happened?" Five is pleased and your smile stays the same. "And we're gonna tell them that _you_ ," the emphasis extends itself. Klaus let out a faint cry. "Beat the shit out of us."

His sobs turn to non-reluctant smiles as he releases his hunched-over posture to stand up straight again. Your smile fads because the moments over and your mouth is starting to feel sore.

"You're gonna do great in prison, Grant. Trust me, I've been there." He takes a breath. You remember that. "Little piece of chicken like you." You _almost_ laugh and your sunny disposition back again. "Oh, my God, you're gonna get passed around like a..." His hips swirl and his feet stay planted. "You're just-- You're gonna do great. That's all I'm saying."

Klaus smiles giddily and Five stays confident, serious, a detective who hasn't had his last growth spurt yet.

"Jesus, you are a real sick bastard."

You push a fallen strand of hair behind your ear elegantly.

Klaus takes little time to muster up a breathy response.

"Thank you."

He spits some glass and Five keeps his lackluster smile of prowess.

____________

The man, the lucky one, shakily searches for files and you stand next to Five. The edge of the counter manages to jab into your ribcage and you don't really notice.

"Where did you go last night?" It's below a whisper and you almost convince yourself it's only your imagination.

Five is looking at you.

"Soul searching." It doesn't take long to find the answer from your database of sarcasm, it comes off rude and secretive which must be the reason the conversation didn't end there.

"Eight," he warns. He's never called you anything other than 'Eight'. Granted, it's your name, but people call you Eightie day in and day out because it fits you better. Your not like Five, people call him Five because he wouldn't tolerate a nickname. 

It bothers you sometimes.

"I walked, for a while, and then I fell asleep on the floor." He gives you a furrowed look. You give him a toothless smile. "Is that good?"

You're cold.

He doesn't reply.

"Oh, that's strange." Five's attention is drawn from your almost grief-stricken face to the man, Lance, the guy who works in the building for a majestic glass.

His eyes scan the page once more.

"What," Five replied, it's quick and to the point. There are no fluffy words or thoughtful pauses because Five doesn't give a shit about those things.

"Uh, the eye. It hasn't been purchased by a client yet." You freeze and something slimy and cold runs down your back. It leans up to your ear and whispers unformed words that warn you of things your own eyes have seen without you knowing it.

It tells you the read the words in his head. To take a peek and find out what he knows that he doesn't dare tell you.

It makes you want to scream.

Klaus hops off of his casual spot on the countertop. Your eyes become bugged and your heart rate increases and he inquires a simple "What? What do you mean?"

Five must've noticed, he must've seen the terror that edged every part of you because you've always known things before they were known by any other. You've always had feelings about the future because that's just part of you now. The things that you feel are always connected and someone, maybe Five, could know what they meant if he looked harder enough.

Klaus encircles Lance. He ends up behind him, it's intimidating and maybe a little flirty if you didn't know any better. 

"Well, uh, our logs say that the eye with that serial number," he furrows, he reads, he is utterly disheveled from the close proximity to harm he feels at this moment. "This can't be right. It hasn't even been manufactured yet."

He looks at Five, it's not a look of fear or demand. It's a look of only confusion, a soft confusion that you feel no draw to.

The dread, the invisible pain enters you like the cold and it rips you apart until you can't stand. Until your place both hands on the counter in a fashion that almost draws attention and must take a gulp of air as reassurance.

"Where did you get that eye?"

Five sighs, he looks at a lot of things, scoffing, shaking his head, eventually settling where his hands are resting. He doesn't look at you and he doesn't seem a bit surprised when you toss the unsettled feeling aside and give him an empathetic glance.

The cold becomes a little more apparent.

____________

"Well, this is not good." His tone is still so condescending in its selfishness and you remember hearing it in your head at night when you couldn't sleep and books were too disinteresting. 

"I was pretty good, though, right?" You chuckle. Five isn't amused like yourself. "Yeah. what about _my_ consent, bitch?" Klaus hits the 'bitch' hard and you chuckle again.

"That _was_ delightful," you add, happy and smiling like a small child as Five becomes more infuriated than he had been when you all arrived at the building.

You all walked down the steps in different ways that referenced your impressions on the world so exactly.

"Klaus, it doesn't matter." He directs it only at the lollygagging brother and the insignificance that you had believed to be pushed aside come back in a heartbeat. You take a step back. Your eyes squint and the conversation that was before the three of you is now just the two.

Your smile fades and words escape you because Five doesn't give a crap about you anymore. He used to, a little. He would ask you if you were alright after a hard day of training and try his best to put a hand on your shoulder.

"What? What? What's the big deal with this eye, anyway?" His hand is thrown up in the air nonchalantly and you don't care as much anymore.

Anger swirls inside of you and it lines your actions.

"There is someone out there who is going to lose an eye in the next seven days." He annunciates each word with precision, almost as if he's explaining it all to a little kid. It's Klaus but you understand how they can be perceived similarly. "They're gonna bring about the end of life on this Earth as we know it."

It isn't exactly what you had expected.

The anger leaves and you tilt your head.

Klaus takes a breath, turning over his shoulder to Five, who, probably out of frustration, had walked a few feet behind his own brother because standing still wasn't interesting enough anymore.

"Yeah, can I get that 20 bucks, like, now, or what?" It's not a lot, twenty dollars. You would give it to Klaus if he wasn't already deep in conversation. You have a fifty in your pocket and it doesn't have any attachment to you whatsoever.

Sometimes your father would give you a little money when you were calm enough to stay alive and follow directions. It happened a lot so you had acquired quite the collection of small bills.

"Your twenty bucks?"

You sigh.

"Yeah, my 20 bucks."

Five's eyes look at Klaus with an unbelieving description.

"The apocalypse is coming and all you can think about is getting high?" You wonder what Five expected from Klaus. He, despite his height and age, has no sense of general responsibility until things get too hard for him to ignore. You know, after years of listening to his ramblings, that it isn't upfront and it isn't simple.

"Well, I'm also quite hungry." His sultry expression pisses Five of to unreachable lengths and you decide now is definitely the best time to pipe into the conversation. "Tummy's a rumblin'."

"I second that," you add softly, hand raising in the air hesitantly. Five's eyes dart to you for less than a measly second, his annoyed expression having a strange deafen as he notices the absolute amount of agreement.

You don't eat much.

His eyes now rest on both of you and he looks different.

You feel sick.

"You're useless." He doesn't say it just to Klaus and you think back to your dream. "You're all useless!"

He walks away, not coming back towards the steps, back towards the shaky stance that you feel isn't strong enough to hold in the weight of your mid.

"Oh come on." Klaus follows calmly. "You need to lighten up, old man." He is old. Very old. Older than he looks and older than he talks because even though he walks like his years the age never comes to his face. Maybe it didn't even manage to show much before all of this either.

He sits, you do too. Next to him. Next to the person you, and only you would risk your whole goddamn life for. None of your siblings would willingly ruin their lives for Five. None of them tried to get him back after he dashed out of the dining room like it was all one big game of hot potato or something.

"Hey, you know, I've just now realized why you're so uptight." Klaus is Klaus, information is his strong point and yet his weakest section of mindset. He walks forward too, gesturing like always. "You must be horny as hell!" He laughs, you don't, Five stares off at nothing. "All those years by yourself."

He too sits now. Comfortable as glass litters his forehead like sparkles completing the pain-filled red.

"It's gotta screw with your head, being alone." It makes you want to barf, the notion of anything bad happening to a person like Five.

Well, not like Five, Five in particular. It's him who you had secretly vowed to protect at all costs years and years ago. It's him who you had promised yourself you would be there for even when he couldn't give less of a cow about you.

"Well," he pauses, looking off to something. Something distant. The sun, you think. It fits and you like it. "I wasn't alone."

Something snaps inside of you and you don't question it. You just smile and place your hand gently on your chin, letting it rest and relax so your head can stay clear.

"Oh," Klaus inquires, he's interested and you hate to admit that you were as well. And then, since it's such a you thing to do, you remember the conversation in which he mentioned too many things for any normal brain to comprehend. How he spoke of time travel and rules and your father and the name of a girl named Delores who Vanya asked him about and he never responded. "Pray tell."

"Her name was Delores." You keep smiling but it slowly fades into something painful and you can't seem to stop. "We were together for over thirty years." That's a long time. Your thirty. Klaus is thirty.

Charlie is thirty and he's engaged to a girl, who you assume, isn't a growth stunted adult who has mind powers.

You want to scream.

"Thirty years?" Klaus' exclamation leaves you unfazed. He is, if nothing, never subtle in his personality. "Oh wow!" He chuckles and you feel like you are sitting in a dark room with a blank piece of paper and an empty brain.

Your relationship was what, a couple of months? Less? Was it really just that? Was that all the romance in your life until your quite imminent death?

It should've bothered you more than it did.

"God, the longest I've been with someone was," he thinks before he continues. You hadn't remembered Klaus being a relationship guy. He had Ben over his shoulder and you assumed that was enough nagging for one person. "I don't know, three weeks."

Your gut eats itself and chews until your left as pieces of flesh and despair.

"And that's only because I was so tired of looking for a place to sleep," Klaus adds. It's too much and you understand that better than anyone now. You watch, so-so closely, as Five's face scrunches. He's about to leave. To leave Klaus to his rant, to his-to his insanity. "You know Eight-" Five stops. "Eight had this guy for a while."

Your smile fades.

It was nothing, really.

"Charlie, right?" Your surprised that after all the drugs and alcohol Klaus remembers your ex's name.

"Mhm," you murmur, head nodding up and down like a dopey bobblehead.

Five doesn't look at Klaus, nor does he look at the never-ending sun. He looks at you.

Maybe it's for real now.

If so, you simply don't notice.

"I thought he was cute. Had those dorky bedhead curls and freckles like-" he stops, thinking of a way to describe them. _Like the trail of destruction after a fire._ That's what you had always thought of them. "Like-like...he had a lot of freckles."

Klaus sighs, the blood and glass littering his face as if it's nothing but a scratch.

Five furrows his eyebrows. Thinking, divisively? What is he deducing, and what does it have to do with you and your stupid little love life?

"I ran into him." The words come out and your wish you could push them right back in. You don't speak, you don't move, you don't breath-you don't- _don't._

"When?"

Your eyes widen the smallest fraction and you really _do_ turn to him now. He looks back and you wonder how weird Klaus feels about this.

"Yesterday," you start, nonchalant as ever. It doesn't suit you. "I'm not sure how it happened. I was walking after we got coffee and then _poof_ -" you take a breath. "There he was."

It was a decent summary, you thought.

Five searches your eyes like their globes and he has a geography test. Like their maps to the hidden treasure. Like there the exhibit at the museum and he's a history buff who-who-

_Shut up._

"You know," Klaus is at it again and you drag your eyes away from Fives with an awkward intensity he has never seen in the earthly realms of reality before. "This one guy I was with for a while made the most fantastic _osso buco_ -" You want to hear the rest of Klaus' story but you can't. 

There isn't a simpler way to put it.

A familiar grip is placed on your arm and this time, only this time, it tingles a little.

Blue, lots of it, again and again, it managed to amaze you.

The ocean pulls you away from the osso buco and it pulls you away from your self beaten brother who has so many things to say so many times of the day.

You wished, oh how did you wish, you could listen.

A gasp rings through your ears. It registers and you sigh once more.

'Why,' in a perfect world, you would ask. 'Why did you look at me like that? Like there was something you wanted me to answer?'

"Don't stop. Just keep going."

You are in a cab. The cab driver, as oblivious as he is, listens.

Sounds drown out thoughts and a headache drifts past you like a lucky shot.

The two sounds that come next are nothing if surprising. 

The gut-wrenching screech of lost smiles enters your ears and you want to puke.

Five waves acerbically to Klaus as you pass him in the small car.

Nothing helps the screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything will make sense, if you are still confused, in like chapter ten. (Hopefully)
> 
> Have a spectacular day!!!
> 
> (also you have no idea how much I appreciate hearing your opinions!!)


	9. give my life just to hold your hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, being you, tend to act diligently until diligence leaves you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally posted this before it was done.
> 
> Stress, am I right?
> 
> You're in for a ride though, this is shorter but sorta hefty.
> 
> (literally just that one scene)

The blue fades and a darker shade consumes you. Mood lighting, you thought, had always been something of your fancy.

Five was either careless in his endeavors or much, much, too determined. 

You wondered if this applied to one of those. Both? Neither?

His hands were, once again, stuffed securely in his pockets and you really wished he would quit that. You wished he would quit standing as he did or talking as he did, or doing anything remotely normal as he decided to do it.

Wings flapped against your stomach like raindrops in the midst of a storm.

You decided it to be best to focus more on the task at hand.

Five looked around. Examing, thinking. Although in all his silences you know he was thinking. Imagining things that he needed to do, or say, or shout loudly at one of his siblings because he was always pissed off at them for one reason or another.

His eyes were somewhere far away from yours as he moved swiftly along the tile floors. You were focusing on the fact that you were standing in a department store.

When was the last time you had been in one of these?

Your father was your father, keeping you home to do things you despised doing.

You liked to comply.

In a perfect world, you would begin to bombard Five with questions about the store and why he thought it was crucial they end up there. 

In a perfect world, of course, you would have spoken to him in a significant way for the hours you had spent with him since he arrived.

Air tickled your knees as you followed Five. 

It didn't bother you that the store was dark and he had told you nothing about it. That the whole idea was terribly suspicious to the point where if you were a normal person, you might fear for one's mental health.

It didn't bother you because you had always been prepared to jump off that cliff whenever he so desired. Sometimes, very rarely, you had thought about telling that to him. Stating that you, always you, would be there.

Right there.

He wouldn't take it nearly as well as you would hope and that was always the end of that train of thought.

He moves again, this time he is greeted by a sea of clothing that doesn't really seem his style to you.

He stops for a moment and you frown.

He's nervous. If, 'if' being to operative word, that's possible.

You both keep walking.

It's strangely quiet. You love it, of course, you love it, it's just so quiet.

Five looks to the side at one of the darkness covered displays. You, not paying much attention to his actions, don't notice what he picks up.

It's a flashlight. The fact becomes quite obvious when he turns it on to project a stream of light onto space in front of him.

You really wanted him to stop walking like that.

You wondered if he noticed the way your body scrunched into itself as he flashed the light on racks of clothing around him.

How your shoulders, delicate in a way, made you look as though you were shivering.

It wasn't that though. The cold wasn't something you hated. You welcomed it mostly. It was the gut feeling that things here, especially here, were short.

The blank white faces of mannequins came into view and you shivered. They had no eyes to see with but their un-mannered stares were concerning.

Light traveled un-steady in front of Five and you decided it best to stay behind him. To follow and not get too cocky in your direction. It wasn't your place to make a sound anyway.

He stopped. Surprised, not defiant nor irritated like normal.

It reminded you of something.

He smiled. It really, honestly, looked horrid. You wanted him to stop before the world turned upside down and gravity ceased to exist.

You stayed a few feet behind him now. 

He had, with little kindness though, pulled you into that cab with him because he wanted to. He wanted to bring you here. If he didn't you would simply still he somewhere following Klaus around probably.

His eyes land on the face of one mannequin you know must spark something in him. You don't need to read him to see it. You don't need to know his every facial expression to understand what he is conveying through the look he is giving the woman of plastic.

It happens much too often to yourself anyway.

He sighs, it's small.

"Delores."

You wonder if he's forgotten you are there. because you are. And you are standing there behind him, watching as he reunites with the love of his life. 

You feel insignificant once again.

She looks off and you realize how hard this must be.

How he might be feeling something vaguely similar to yourself.

Not as painful, no. Five can speak. he can say what comes to mind if he wishes. You can't. You're incapable of it, really.

"It's good to see you," he is bland as ever. You smile. "I've missed you," his words trail off into the air, and the way they sound sounds so different to any way he has ever uttered a single syllable before. 

You aren't like that. You've never been like that.

"Obviously," he adds and you feel sad. Not because he's been dating a mannequin but because he misses her and he couldn't manage to let that be his first words to you. You are a tool to most, output to some, and a friend to very few. To Five you are all but a whisper. "Well, I-" he pauses, thinking. "It's been a rough couple of days."

Your eyes become wet, it only lasts for a moment.

It's moving when the movement happens so rarely.

"She's pretty," you manage to muster, your voice is quiet, squeaky in its youthful nature.

Five doesn't turn to you but his smile grows the smallest fraction.

False happiness doesn't only flow through you, it blinds you. 

The gut-wrenching, drawn-out, "No," that escapes Five pierces through you and completely K.O.s your soul because you've never heard him sound just like it before.

You hear the guns too.

Last time, mostly because of your ignorance, you had no motivation to fight. Or maybe you did, you just were too wimpy to act on it. Or maybe, a very small maybe, it was something entirely different that you don't ever want to elaborate on.

But right now, in this very moment, bullets crashed and exploded bove you, and dear god you smiled like the world was ending.

You felt out of place as Five pulled you down in the most forceful way possible. If he hadn't you don't think you would've moved.

Your feet moved like an animal as you scurried behind him.

It was, in all ways, fun.

Neon lights and elaborate smoke show only added to the constant music booming in your head like this was your own private concerns.

You could die.

Your legs scrunched up, making to seem as small as you could, as Five pushed you behind him.

You wondered if he wanted you to be there with him now.

His face wasn't in view for very long because he was rushing around like a maniac but, in the few seconds you did see it, all you could make out was a sort of pure horror that didn't seem Five-like at all.

It terrified you just as much as this whole situation did Five.

Mouth agape, actions rushed and un-mannered, Five was nothing if not out of his norm.

"Oh, Shit! It's them." You didn't bother asking who 'them' was. Or why 'them' was trying to kill him in a department store.

Delores, having an unfortunate emotional standpoint, had been shot to the ground like it had no significance at all.

The whole thing saddened you.

Although, possibly, it was masked with pure excitement because you would gladly risk your life for that doll.

You weren't even sure if that was a compliment to her or not.

Five scrambled out into the gunfire. It was more horrifying to watch him do it than to do it yourself. He got the doll, you knew he would.

Things were fast and you didn't have much time to pay attention to the muffed 'I'll be right back for you,' he mumbled before feet moved and you decided to move yours as well. 

You followed Five, in away. You were behind him, but that wasn't how you avoided the shots. It was interesting, being able to predict people's moved. 

If, of course, you knew who was shooting at you, you knew where they would shoot.

It was simple and complicated in its own simplicity.

When Five jumped you could not. Space was not malleable and legs were the only things moving you.

Legs were plenty.

You had never wished to be athletic. It wasn't something on your to-do list. But, after Five left and endorphins were low, gymnastics was something you would commonly turn to.

None of your siblings understood your draw to it. How you found a strange enjoyment in flipping around the room like a bouncy ball.

Years of intense training in that field and an already established fighting ability were somewhat of an advantage when you got to use them.

You tried your best to stay small. To scrunch up and keep hidden so you were safe.

Instincts overtook logic and you stood up, all but a foot behind someone who was holding on to the guns that were like warfare above you just a few seconds before.

The masked marauder had no business with killing a thirteen-year-old girl but you, you weren't thirteen and you assumed they found that quite obvious.

You assumed since they seemed to know enough about Five to have the audacity to come after him, they knew about the whole 'I'm fifty-eight' ordeal. And then seeing you, another person who can slit someone's throat looking a similar age in a similar uniform, they could only draw the most reasonable conclusion.

No one cared about your presence and you weren't really noticed.

You took a look. Not that it mattered, but you mapped it out. Two people, smart people, masked and armed people. Clothes, lots of those, and Five who was somewhere that you didn't care to decipher.

Lots of running.

No one saw you, well it would be fine if they did, but they didn't. You ducked again, listening because that's what you were best at. Hiding, clothes make your presence and Five was probably wondering where you were. Or maybe not.

Maybe he didn't care.

"You see that?" The gunshots momentarily ceased and forcefully words invaded the lost space.

"You said he was special. So now what?"

They had no idea you were there. No idea you were crouched beneath the forest and waiting like some weird-ass tiger or something.

You _almost_ laugh.

"You start over there, I'll go to the other end. Meet in the middle." Solid plan, you think. Hard as a rock. It will fail, of course, no doubt. But that's okay. It's all okay. "Shoot anything that moves."

You are anything.

That stupid doll.

This isn't your fight. You know that. You are like a little fly in a room full of turkey. It isn't yours, you're not supposed to be here, you should be in your room reading some more of the wonderful depressing Russian poetry that you love so much.

You are going to protect and stupid fucking doll.

The thing is annoyingly close to you. It's right there, in your reach. If you could just quietly move over and then you would be able to grab it an-

"Who's that?"

Fantastic, you think because at least someone noticed you.

You start to run.

It's a frantic sort of sprint, feet moving at inhuman speeds against the dimly lit ground. Your hair, not brushed with any air really, just a little breathy as you dash. 

And dash you do because one gun, only one, is fired constantly in your direction like they would win some prize from killing you. They won't. They won't win anything because your not in anyone's book.

All anyone would get from your death is a couple of forlorn conversations between estranged siblings about how utterly melancholy this whole experience would end up being. And then, after a few weeks or so, nothing. Not a peep nor glance at the idea of you or your tragic life that people could only seem to step on.

The thoughts make you faster.

Your hand dips into the air below you and it touches something. You wrap your tired fingers around the neck of the doll, hoisting it up to your level like it makes a difference anyway.

The thing is tucked under your arm. It's uncomfortable and slows you down a good amount but you don't put it down.

You keep running.

Bombs rush towards you like dashing aircraft, but you avoid them. One flies in front of your eyes, one more inch, and your brain would be toast, but you avoid it. One, a very determined one, grazes your shoulder like it's nothing and blood soaks the short sleeve of your white undershirt, but you manage to avoid any further damage.

There's a duffel, a green one, one that seems big enough to fit the upper body and head of a very strange doll.

You grab it and your other hand grips it just as tightly as it's gripping Dolores.

The running speeds are and the pads of your fingers turn white, slipping only slightly on white plastic as the doll is nestled against you in such a protective way. You don't know Delores, you've never spoken to her like Five has. You have no idea if she even wants to be saved, maybe not by you anyway.

You don't dare loosen your grip.

There is a faint yet enticing gush from somewhere, somewhere close. It's the sound the body makes when the skin slices, blood pushing out through the thing line of an open wound and dripping down the edges of broken success. You love the way the skin becomes slathered in red and how it contrasts the ghastly look on the face of the person, a cry of pain or fall to the ground only emphasizing your point of how truly wonderful it can be.

You keep running.

More bullets dash at you but, as always, you avoid them.

You avoid all the hits and shots that could kill you in a second because your just that good.

In some ways at least.

You hit something.

The thing hastily grabs the doll from your hand.

The relief of the now non-existent weight is great until you realize you're still in the middle of gunfire.

Five, though he looks nothing like himself, take the duffel from you as well. It's fast, much slower in your own crowded head, but fast. It's hard for you to think our own thoughts at times like these. When you listen to the insanity in other head the insanity in yours is usually pushed far back enough for it to become transparent.

"Stay close."

Another hand grabs yours and your feet tap against the ground rapidly once more.

His grip on your wrist is a little painful, although that makes sense.

You are running from two people with masks and guns.

He doesn't tell you to stay low, he doesn't tug your hand down either. He just does and most likely is hoping that you, not too much of an idiot, will follow his lead because you simply trust him enough to do so.

He pulls you and your not sure where. Everything is blue and blue is what you must love to focus on when you're that close to dying in a department store.

All you know, or maybe all you care to know, is that you're running, and this time Five is pulling you along with him.

There was a mission once, you don't remember it too well, were you two ended up dashing somewhere, together. He grabbed your wrist, expression more frustrated than angry, and pulled you close enough to hear his voice over all of the gunshots and crap everyone was going through at the moment and whispered a timid "Stay here."

He placed you somewhere that was almost hidden to the naked eye, safe although that's not what you were supposed to be at all.

You had powers, you needed to fight, it was what you had been told to do.

Granted, a few seconds later Five came back and told you why he had done it and that he really didn't want you to feel sidelined at all.

It wasn't as sweet as it sounds.

Noises that hadn't previously been there knock you out of your adrenaline trance.

The stress of an ocean attempting to break through reality is exactly what you're greeted with as Five's definitely not composed face scrunches.

The hand on your wrist never falters and you wonder if it's just because Five doesn't have the thinking space to concisely change it or because he really doesn't want to let go.

Maybe it's neither and you're just not used to people wanting to actively interact with you.

The woosh was loud but the thoughts you could hear coming closer to you were much louder.

The shouts of self-encouragement, the profanities that always seemed to show through in the mind because it had no such filter as the mouth.

"Shit!" The ocean rippled out into nothing and your heartbeat came close to frantic. "Come on!"

The world slowed and sounds morphed into long-drawn-out notes because _Five could not jump._

Or blink, you think, he calls it that sometimes.

Whatever the word phrase or scientific term, he couldn't do it and frantic gunfire was not one to end when anxiety overtook posture and expression.

You ran again.

The slowness of the situation ceased for a moment, the gunfire returning to its previous speed and the sound of quick footsteps made its way back to your ear once more.

You look up and realize that your destination is not the ideal area of right in front of you.

The world slows once more.

The grip on your wrist, even though don't believe it possible, tightens. He's scared and it worries you. It makes that cold feeling rush over you again and it creates this sadness you could only bring yourself to feel when the fear of another was strong enough to melt against your skin.

He tugged you forward and you were flying.

Of course, it wasn't nearly as simple. He tugged you forward, igniting the notion that you had to jump over the product littered display that was placed hefty in front of you. The jump wasn't the thing, it really wasn't, you jumped all the time. The bullets were flying at you and your pace slowed. 

Time was nothing of concern as you hesitated to swing over the display like you were definitely sure this was safe.

You listened much too closely. You heard them, the insanity that is rushed thoughts when adrenaline is pumping through someone's head like a drug and they can't do anything but pull the trigger.

It hit you and you wondered if it wouldn't have been that hard to dodge.

You stumbled together your footing.

No one would've blamed you.

"You alright?" It was so quiet and so fast that you didn't really want to respond.

You didn't want to do that to him.

It was a nod, an action that no one in their right mind would take lightly because you never looked just so vulnerable. Five had been gone for seventeen years and your small action of reassurance was nothing of a worry at the moment anyway.

He didn't remember these things.

there wasn't much distance to run because open space was all there was left. Five looked, bewildered in his confidence because all the average traits that he was known by had flown out the window so many moments ago.

Hair clung to his forehead and you still said nothing. You made no expression of discomfort or noise of indication because you weren't like that. You weren't worried and you weren't scared of such things.

"Got him." The words did nothing to settle the heaving chest of the boy, not boy, man maybe.

It's hard and you don't put much thought into it.

Sirens blare.

Blue consumed your every being and it entered the whole inside you as it belonged there, like it could stuff up the empty space and protect you long enough to smile and nod with the smallest bit of reluctance.

For anyone, it would be the blink of an eye.

For you, it was another quick dash along with a significant distance as the delightful faces of large colorful masks allowed themselves to be distracted. You never got distracted. It was near impossible when you let your mind open.

You heard everything that wasn't a sound.

Relived breaths left Five, you made no such noise.

"The bastard jumped again."

"Come on let's go."

There was all but a moment of silence that wasn't even really silent at all.

The sirens continued to blare.

Adrenaline, you heard, could mask pain. You read it in a book, one of the overly detailed textbooks that your father found somewhere you didn't bother to query on. It was a medical thing, you heard, that it sort of blocked the fact of the matter from entering the inner workings of your brain until your heart rate slowed.

Now must have been like that.

Reason soon left you.

You tried not making a noise. Listening to Five’s tired breaths and trying to convince yourself it wasn’t that bad, it wasn’t-

A hand dives to your side and you choke up a faint sob. Wild abandonment lines your tone like a neon thread.

It’s not the pain that leaves you speechless. No. It’s the fact that you don’t want it to be like this yet. You had things to do. You had plans.

You had Five and Five had plenty more ignorant statements you were fully willing to patiently listen to.

“Eight?” It was a whisper. A hoarse one at that.

Why didn't you take the nice normal name your mother had offered to you? Why did you decide it was a good idea to be called by a number for the rest of your life?

It was because of Five. You did it because of Five.

A response cannot seem to escape you.

Five couldn’t breathe for a hot second.

“Five,” you manage to mumble, eyes large like small moons on their way too full.

His furrows his eyebrows, more sweat accumulating on his forehead.

He’s processing. You wish he would do it faster.

It's not the pain. The pain is nothing. Someone could tear off your arm all you might do is flinch. Heart-stopping amounts of blood and all your nerves feeling like they're on fire is nothing that surprises you anymore.

It's something different.

No, you're not a selfish person. Most people would call you one of the most selfless people they would ever meet. 

You want him to focus on you.

“Five,” you choke out, assuming he has ignored your past statement. “Five, this uniform wasn’t cheap.”

He doesn’t laugh. You want to hear him laugh.

Color starts to drain from your face and Five, wholeheartedly, doesn’t say a word.

“I think-” You press a hand harder to your wound, you wince. “There’s this quote, don’t remember it, but it was nice. I was going to say to use it if you have to but I guess it’s useless if I can’t tell it to you.”

Five has no idea what you mean.

Things become a little darker.

Your head hurts.

A shaky hand reaches to you. You watch it and think that maybe it’s not even really there right now.

“Your bleeding.”

Those, those are the words he chooses to say after his silence.

You don’t have the power to almost laugh anymore.

“Shit, am I?” It’s only sarcastic and Five isn’t relaxed by it at all.

You desperately want to hear his half-assed chuckle once more. If-if this is it, you want to him hear him chuckle.

Five scoffs, you're confused, his eyes meet yours and for once you feel significant.

He wants to scream.

Red coats your hand and you barely notice.

It’s that green that you had seen so often that steals your glance.

Your head can’t hurt anymore because there isn’t enough of it left.

You're dizzy, the world spins and you want it to stop.

“Five,” you mutter, your hand that was coated in your own death lifts up to your vision.

You look down.

Realization might finally hit you now.

You gulp down the terror for a second. Enough for words to leave you once more.

“It’s so loud.”

Screams echoed through you and you can't make them go away like you usually can. You can't block them or silence them. you have to listen. You had to endure them because that's what your head does to you when you lose control.

He hears you, he has to, he has to memorize every sound that leaves your lips now.

You collapse. Even in your sitting state, you manage to fall mindlessly back into him.

He's warm and you don't know if it's because he's a living breathing person or, possibly, the trance-inducing fight got a reaction out of him.

Arms wrap around you, they scrabble to get a handle of your limp body and keep it upright.

“Eight, Eight, hey, you're okay.”

It’s denial. You had heard it before.

Heck, you had experienced it.

Green eyes stare down at you with an unbelieving description.

“Hey-hey stay with me.”

You're shaken lightly, your body jiggling only slightly.

Why can’t you say anything back? Why can you only make a small sound, something of a simple whimper?

A tear hits you and you let it engulf you. You let it force sadness down your throat. You let it flutter your eyelids shut, and you let it wrap its arms around you and lift you from the ground in a shaky manner.

"Shit." It's sounds too much like something he might say.

You wrote a poem once.

 _From the nursery_ , it read, _can be heard the achy cries of a child. It can’t see, nor can it breathe. Yet it lives._

Writing was not your forte. It was, in all senses, hard. You knew nothing you made perfect. You knew you weren't perfect. If you were perfect you would be fine and the bullet in your stomach wouldn't be bothering you at all.

Somehow though the poem, strangely enough, made sense to you.

“It’s okay,” you hear each sound, each lilt, each syllable. “It’s okay, please just-please just keep your eyes open for me, okay?”

Silence beckons you. It calls you and tells you it can be night forever.

Your hands grasp at the light.

_Slipping like water on ice._

Screams run through your ears and you swear they have been told to you before.

_Maybe the child doesn’t cry now. Maybe it doesn’t see nor breathe. Does the child live?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think? (I ask like a lot of people read this or something)
> 
> But I really do love your opinions so so much!!!!
> 
> (Fight scenes are hard. Especially when they are like half the chapter)


	10. just don't ask me how i've been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Fake Happy'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might not be like the rest. Don't hate me but I felt it needed.

His walls are green and you can't bring yourself to expect the fact that it's not dissimilar to another green you used to notice when the sky was dark and the world around you was only quiet breaths of wind.

He smiles.

"It's not coffee but-" you interrupt him. You being the only one who can do such a rude thing in such a kind way.

"No no," you glance at the cup in your hand. It warms your hands like other hands might do and you feel less cold for once. "I love it."

You do love it. Not as much as books and not as much as people reading books to you but you love it nonetheless.

You love everything.

He smiles again. You only see his tube socks dangling from the side of the bed. He's skinny and it makes him seem less threatening than Five ever did. 

"I uh," there is a pause and his award squeaks of tone bring warmth to you like never before. "I'm glad you could come today."

"Me too."

There is, once like always, a silence. You smile inside it, assuming he is doing the same. He always is. He's always kind, never calls you foolish, bland, a burden on the mass interworkings of his mind.

He's nothing like Five.

You smile.

Your digits ripple against the cup, your grip tight but faltering at moments. It's hot and chocolatey and you want to slurp it up in an un-kindly way more than anything. 

"How are you?"

Your eyes jerk to the side, meeting with the sight of delicate freckles and oversized glasses that you know are the most perfect accessories for uniqueness you've seen in a while now. Things, for you, are plain in such a uniform way. The painted to perfection aura you find in you as you look at him sends tingles bursting down your spine.

"Decent." The response edges on stupidity. "Not decent, it's all relative right?"

It wasn't a question, maybe a plea.

"Yeah," it was a mumble, a nothing. "It's all relative."

The next silence only brings despair because Charlie, despite his acceptance of your madness, is normal. So gloriously normal that you want to stay in his green bedroom and admire his manicured style of dress as he plays the Beatles so you can actually enjoy music for once.

His parents love you more than they love themselves.

"I don't want this." It's a surprise to hear your own timely voice say such a disturbing thing in your own ears. You do want this. You want to spend these days with him and you want to sit in his room as he explains the ridiculous things his friends did at school.

You want him and it doesn't have any bit to do with Five now.

"What?"

His voice, in its attempts to be strong, is faltering and you close your eyes in the most terrifying manner.

"I don't want this feeling anymore." You tell yourself to shut up, to stop talking, to whisp your worries aside, and smile at him like nothing was ever wrong.

You tell yourself the be who you have always been perceived as.

"Eightie I-"

"I can't sit here and pretend that your fine with the fact that you are moving on with your life and I can't move past ignorant adolescence." You spin to him once more. It's the last time and your fears arise. 

He looks at you and you want to cry. He's sad and you know the last few conversations between you two haven't been dissimilar to this in their tone.

No one likes these things.

"I am fine with it."

You sigh. It's a depressing noise that pierces the boy through his heart because he doesn't want you to be sad. He doesn't want to age, He wants to stay fifteen and he wants to see your smile like it's never going to leave him.

"No, you aren't, no one would be." You place a hesitant hand on his shoulder. The small furs of his sweater brush against your palm and it steals the warmth from you.

"Are you breaking up with me?"

You narrow your eyes and wonder if that's what this sounds like. 

"I'm not completely sure what a breakup consists of." The regret doesn't make its way to your lips and you watch as his confusion morphs into complete and utter despair as the statement sinks into his head.

He takes it as a yes.

You not sure _how_ to feel.

"Well," he's obviously recalling the pop-culture references that base his view of the world. "Usually, although it varies, one person gives the other a very subtle yet strangely blatant statement that could be interpreted in a few or more ways." He doesn't say it harshly and you appreciate that more than most things. "Then, voice crack and all, the other gets the idea and asks a follow up mostly because they don't really want it to be real."

You noticed that.

"I don't _want_ to do it," is exactly what you would say if you were better and getting straight to the point. But you don't. You don't say anything like that at all.

"I love you." You're fifteen and the words mean near to nothing coming out of your mouth.

The boy is in awe.

You wonder if those words are meant for now or for a time when you might have been able to expect not to hear them back.

"I-I love you too."

You let out a breath and you wish that the ones you held dear wouldn't leave like such light leaves in the wind.

"Charlie I really-"

He kissed you and fleeting words fleeted faster.

It was, despite your thoughts, delightful. You don't think Charlie had kissed anyone other than you.

The word swirled into something of fairytales and jokes on the back of candy wrappers. 

The hot chocolate is still in your hand and it takes everything inside of you not to toss it on the floor. To push it away and focus on Charlie because he needs to understand that you want to kiss him. You want to talk to him and you want him to smile back.

You really want him to smile back.

The kiss ended before the thoughts of a possible reconciliation of your state even had the chance to begin.

Blush coated freckled cheeks and you felt like a complete and utter monster.

"To answer your question." The room grows unbelievably silent. "Yes." Cold crept up your shoulder and whispered mistaken things into your ear. "I'm breaking up with you"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short (sorry). It doesn't explain much. No one asked for this and I doubt anyone enjoyed it.
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Have a spectacular day!!!


	11. rock and roll baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mixture of comfort and neglect makes you a very torn individual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like actually though, Paramore is freaking amazing.
> 
> It really does just manage to bring out all the stupid teenage angst I got piled up inside of me, ya know?
> 
> Probably not, finally finished this chapter.
> 
> Yay!

"I know I acted like an asshole." You find it strange that those are the words you hear as you wake. The voice, in itself, sounds different to you. Normally, and you say normally because it is nothing but normal, the voice wouldn't be soft nor faltering. "I mean granted, I am an asshole." The almost laugh is more of a state of mind at this point. "I just-" The pause is filled with a breath that is elongated in its weight. "I'm sorry."

You don't open your eyes. You know you should. You should open your eyes and groan as if the pain bothers you. You should smile and pretend you hadn't heard him and everything can go back to its happy medium.

There is a sigh from the not so empty space next to you.

"Your room looks the same."

____________

You'd fallen back asleep a while ago. No one would blame you for it. Maybe, you think, they would encourage you to rest even more.

You don't give a shit though.

The lack of food in your system, the lack of life in you at all, it takes a toll and all you need is some pleasant conversation to push it behind the curtain for at least a few solid, heartfelt, hours.

Your eyes pop open.

The room, as familiar as it is, is empty. Everything hurts and you manage to ignore it.

Your not, as you soon realize, wearing anything different than when you had got shot in the first place. It brings you a certain sense of calm. It's like no time has passed and everything is still the same. Like Five didn't have to rush you back to the house and your heart didn't almost stop as it had.

They had all thought you were going to die.

You sigh.

An arm props you up, your eyes adjust to the reality of it all the rest of the bedroom comes into your reluctant view.

It looks the same.

Sweat cakes your forehead like a layer of remembrance as your hair clings to you for its life. 

Your attempt at starting your mind up again is not dissimilar to just trying to feel something as you don't act as carefully as you should as you push yourself up from your previous lying position.

You don't manage to let out a pained grunt because you shove it down your throat. You shove it down deep and you don't let the obvious signs of pain make their way to your expression. You stay blank and press your lips together, it's a thin line that replaces your usual smile.

No one had waited for you, no one has sat by your bedside and stayed until your eyes opened again.

It only bothers because you know, definitely, if it had been another habitant of the hell bringing house who got shot you would've refused to leave until they could speak to you once more.

Deftly wobbly feet landed on the cold wooden floor and you became grounded again.

Clouds left your vision and the blood that soaked your contrasted white shirt had dried. Your skin paled, ghastly. Circles lined your normally pleasant eyes and your expression helped none of these things because you looked more numb than you had when you were asleep.

You still look dead.

Feet platter against the wood and arms stay limp by your side because you don't think they have anything left in them now.

You _are_ limp.

_"What happened?' The whispering tone can only emphasize the underlying terror in all the words that come._

_"I-I...she just-" the voice breaks, the only words continuing the statement are the kind of sobs that you hear like waterfalling blubbers at funerals._

Your closet, being the same, has all you would expect. An arm reached up, calm, still, hesitant. It wants to grab something and you know that because it's your arm. It's you. It's you and you have to keep reminding yourself that because the thought leaves you much too often.

Outfits line the metal rod as if it hasn't been over sixteen years.

You sigh. 

The line, the one that brought much too much despair to your ageless expression, is replaced.

You smile.

____________

The hallway, being dark and decent quiet, welcomes you. If anyone saw you if anyone knew you were walking, they would tell you to stop. Or maybe, caught up with other things, they wouldn't. Maybe they would send you a fleeting glance and toss their worries aside because you are Number Eight.

You can take care of yourself.

Everything won't stop hurting.

The deafening have that had long settled on your skin won't be brushed away by a simple disconcerting glance and a few encouraging words anyway.

You'll be fine.

So-so fine.

You've been thinking about getting back into poetry again.

In dying times, times when the world is ending and people come back like it's okay for them to do so, you like to write. It helps. It blocks it all out, it puts into words that you can read in a peaceful state because perspective is all you need.

It's all you ever need.

You knock on Klaus' door.

____________

"Does it still hurt?"

For some reason you can't detect, you freeze. It's a freeze that, apparently, doesn't go un-noticed.

A hesitant on your shoulder, a lopsided smile beaming from next to you, music booming your ears which such a melancholy tune that you feel like you could keel over from all the emptiness any moment now.

"I got shot," you turn, you lock eyes, his hand falls from your shoulder and you become indescribably blank. "It hurts like hell."

Klaus chuckles. You shrink, desperate memories blind you.

_Again._

"Logical and to the point," his words are faded into soft laughs, a finger waving through the air as his eyes leave yours as if it doesn't mean he _is_ slipping away. "You know," he thinks "Sometimes I wish everyone could just talk like that."

You don't say 'Talk like what?' because it would pointless and completely beside the point. Conversational fluff is nothing of your forte, it's useless and you'd rather just say that the husband is dead than go on a whim about how life is a thing to be lived, even if not everyone can live it with you.

"No one has the courage," you shake your head, comedic bliss is all you can describe anything as now because when you talk to Klaus comment sense is blurred and you feel as if his nonsense has rubbed off on you after all these years.

The weirdest duo.

"Magnifique."

There is a pleasant silence.

"Did you ever find that box?"

Klaus turns, jaw cocked, eyebrow raised, a forlorn look that isn't as sad when it settles within you because your all depressed and the stress has to get to some of you soon.

He shakes his head. It's a light gesture. This isn't him and you wonder where your brother has run to this time. Where his secret garden is located because the amount of time he escapes to it every day increases as the stakes heighten.

You want to run with him next time.

____________

It's not the worst weather.

It's not great, it's not a delightful fall evening or a nice summer afternoon. But your alive, that's nice.

Or maybe it isn't, your not completely sure about a lot of things and so you lean against the metal container.

"Damn it," a bag is tossed over the side. "Where's dad's stuff?" You have no idea. You have no idea how to answer most questions because your social skills have dropped at a constantly increasing rate since you were actually thirteen.

Klaus is restless. The cigarette in his mouth, despite it seeming relaxation methods when it normally comes to him, is doing nothing to dull his nerves now. You feel that. It's weird how much you felt hat.

"Shut up!" The words are directed at Ben, or who you can only assume is Ben. It's always Ben.

You miss Ben.

Pushkin steals your undivided attention.

It's not that Klaus' words are pointless to you. They aren't. You're there for him, you would be helping him if extending your arms didn't risk your life-saving stitches from opening and buckets of blood from escaping your body once more.

You cringe.

"I'm trying to find whatever.." he searches for an immaculate word. "Priceless crap was in that priceless box so that Pogo will get off my ass!" The sentence is a crescendo and by the end of it, Klaus is officially frustrated.

You focus on Pushkin and ignore the fact that Five is scaling down the side of the building.

There is a short silence, you relish in it. You relish in the wind that blows against your face and makes your nose just red enough to feel the chill but not red enough to catch any sort of discomfort. You relish in the true and complete happiness that comes from gentle rusting and the quiet earth because, in your opinion, that's how it should always be. Quiet, silent, deadly in its absolute stillness.

"I'd ask what you're up to, Klaus, but then it occurred to me..." the voice does not manage to differ from its the norm, you smile and the words of Pushkin become a sort of poetic blur. "I don't care."

The pause that allowed the words to exit his lungs as Five climbed down the metal ladder is over and you keep smiling. It's a kind smile, one that invites conversation and creates a sense of comfort.

It really is a perk sometimes.

"Hey!" It's a greeting, one followed by a brotherly laugh that your smile grows because of.

Everything hurts.

"You know there are easier ways out of the house, buddy?" You've always wanted the courage to call Five 'buddy' or some other ridiculous name because deep down you know that he wouldn't do anything about it.

He tolerates you.

Or maybe he doesn't and you are just completely delusional.

Maybe both. Definitely both. Both are probably the most accurate description of your life you've ever come up with, which is a little depressing when you consider the scope of things.

"This one involved the least amount of talking." He takes a breath, sighs, and makes that face he makes where he presses his lips together in the most condescending way you've ever seen on a person and looks at you with the maximum amount of distaste. "Or so I thought."

Klaus fumbled to the edge of the dumpster.

"Hey, hey, hey, so," he pauses, you look up. The flask in his hand is unsurprising. "You need any more company today?" The query hides a million layers of insinuation that you don't dare take a look at. "I could uh-" he lifts the flask. "Clear my schedule."

He wears a green bag like a backpack. You, not at all jealous of a plastic doll, aren't affected by his. He has his doll, you have your Pushkin.

Very different, that's for sure, but comforting.

"Looks like you've got your hands full."

It sounds stupid, it really does, but you want to come too.

You always want to come with people when they do things, you want to keep them company and create pleasant conversation when the atmosphere grows cold.

You take the coldness for yourself and let everyone feel warm.

"Oh, this?" He's in a dumpster searching through bags of trash, his hands are completely empty. "No, no. I can do this whenever." He leans back from the edge of the bin. "I'm just-" the sentence never finishes and all you hear the soft (not so soft) clatters of a falling body and silent disappointment.

You do laugh. It was going to be an almost, you had intended on it being an almost, but you laugh.

"I just misplaced something, that's all," the muffled voice clarifies. 

_I love you-though it makes me beat,_

_Though vain it seems, and melancholy-_

_Yet to this shameless, hapless folly I'll be confessing at your feet._

You don't read poems for romanticism, you don't read anything for romanticism.

You read because it's easy.

"Oh!" The muffled voice is joyous. "Found it," Klaus emerges. "Thank god!" He sighs, it's a sad sigh because his eyes drift to the not very foreseen object in his hands. You look at it too.

He takes a bite of the half disregarded bagel.

The gulp settles in your mind and disturbs you more than you expected it to.

"Delicious."

FIve looks, you look at him as he looks.

"I'm done funding your drug habit." You widen your eyes. Not because of the drug thing, you don't care about the drug thing. Addicts are hard, everyone knows that they can't listen and they have issues beyond belief. 

Five is about to turn and walk away.

"Hey!" He turns, again, the way you want him to because he's looking in your general direction now.

_General._

"Yes?" He didn't mean that. He didn't mean that and it hit you like a million bricks, enough to make your expression for the smallest fraction of a second.

"I'm coming." It's not a question, of course it's not a question, you said it like a statement. Everything you say is perceived as a question. Five scoffs, rolls his eyes, shakes his head, smiles the tiniest bit, and then starts to turn again. "I'm serious," you add. Pushkin falls to your side, the other hand that you seem to possess raising in the weakly as if this is an elementary school and Five a very persistent teacher.

He turns again, not fully, a peek at your bland face because he doesn't dare take much more than that.

"No," he pauses. "No, your not."

Klaus has gone silent.

"Oh okay," You chuckle, Pushkin falls to the ground. Pushkin is irrelevant. "Well," you trail off and Five is so prepared, maybe. "I'm injured so you kinda have to let me do whatever I want." You shrug.

This isn't you, this is necessary.

"No."

"Yes."

He raises an eyebrow. "No."

"You owe me an extra boring white button-up then." 

_You've done it, by George, you've tricked the trickiest._

It's a forlorn thought because Five was not amused.

"Shut up." It's a mere mumble and it's followed a gush of footsteps because Five is turning again.

You forget Pushkin completely. 

It's a confident walk, not too confident, but confident. Klaus becomes vocal again.

"Come on, I don't-" he cuts himself off, you catch up. "Maybe I just wanna hang out with my brother." You doubt it, Five ignores your presence. "Not you," he head tilts and you can only assume Ben is not amused. 

Words become muffled by distance. Five grabs the bag from his shoulders, holding it differently for seemingly no reason at all.

"Mi Hermano!" Five jobs, you follow haphazardly. "I love you," the calls, he drawls, he says in a tone that must make Five want to dig his fingernails into his palms and let them bleed. "Even if you can't love yourself!"

You pull open the back door of the van, finding it more interesting than the passenger seat. You shuffle in, the injury becomes second thoughts because the pain is nothing, the pain is free to dig away at your soul for as long as it pleases.

The pain isn't the thing that's going to kill you.

The back door slams shut.

____________

FIve isn't paying attention to anything but the street.

You have an idea.

It's not a rare occurrence that you do things like this.

You squint. The girl has brown hair, it's short. The guy, you find it interesting, cargo short of pure thoughtless taste because they really do look dreadful on him.

"He's gonna laugh," you abruptly state like Five _must_ be on the same wave link as you.

He rustles, turning, accusing you of a true kind of insanity. "Excuse me?"

You sigh, back extending in a way and really is just emphasizing the way you tilt your head in a particular direction.

"He's gonna laugh."

The man, the one with the insufferable cargo shorts, the one who's standing next to the short-haired girl who looks like she finds no enjoyment in anything more, laughs.

Five sees no point in your statement.

"So?" It's not as rude as it might look on paper, he just doesn't get it. Your smile fades.

_"Good luck with that Five."_

The same energy doesn't come to you this time.

"That usually impresses people more."

He chuckles.

"Yeah?" He shifts and you know he doesn't care to continue your attempt. "Well, I guess I'm just not people."

____________

He looks troubled. Not the normal troubled, you get the normal troubled, you are the normal troubled.

This is not the normal troubled.

He looks almost, and you think almost because Five never looks fully anything, paralyzed. 

Mouth agape, eyes filled with an unbelievable amount of terror, and you watch. 'Are you alright,' you would ask, 'What's wrong?'

Nothing seems to escape you.

You think about, quite deeply, trying to further understand Five at times. Trying to dig into his head, discretely searching through his thoughts as it wasn't private information that you had previously forbidden yourself from looking at.

_"It bothers me," he grimaces. "She's just weirdly powerful, ya know?"_

You shiver.

There a rustle from outside the van.

You lose the worry and sincerity because now you wonder why everything must seem amusing.

"Hey, Five," it's a knock, a statement, strict but less so when you listen to it. The knocking becomes more persistent, close, and wandering. "Five."

Five looks shocked, not because the passenger door has opened though, it's something entirely different that you don't care to look into because you are in pain and the world is spinning a little.

"What are you..." the mumble drifts off, unexpected and despondent look taking away the pain briefly because it morphs into Five again. Into the coffee addicted loser, you had been sitting in the car with for a little while when the world stopped and you saw nothing but your loss of Pushkin.

You miss Pushkin.

The large man's shoulder creak against the doorway of the van.

Luther pants, tired after struggling to enter a car in the most comedic way you've ever seen someone enter a car. You would laugh if it was funny to you.

"You okay?" He's not and it's an idiotic question. You try to imagine Pushkin.

"You shouldn't be," he starts, it's un-natural, un-meaningful. It's at a loss for purpose so you sit and you pretend you're occupied with your dreamlike images of Pushkin's pages. You're always listening and no one seems to fully grasp that enough. "How did you find me?"

Five is baffled, Luther is nonchalant, you are ignorant to who is behind you. Or maybe your not, maybe you just don't really care because nothing is surprising and the world is about to end gloriously enough to preserve your life-force for a few more days.

"Uh," Luther adds, it's an incredibly intelligent noise. He looks back. He sees you, you, and your imaginary Pushkin. 

"Hey baby," you aren't in this situation right now. Klaus dances, doll in his arms like he is in complete and utter love. You smile. "Hey, a little privacy, guy. We're really hitting it off back here." You think it's cute, not because Klaus is dancing with eh doll, but because he did it to be himself for that is his only goal.

Five wants to marry that thing though.

An object, one with incredible force, come hurtling towards you. You duck, it's a strategic action that you've done many times, of course. Klaus ducks too, or shields himself with Dolores who you can only assume wishes that he would put her down and shut up for once in his life.

"Get out!" That's beyond possible. "You can't be here!" He's not as angry as it seems, maybe more frustrated because he's fifty -eight, and what do they expect from him? He looks, at Klaus, not at Klaus, not at you. "I'm in the middle of something."

Sort of. 

Not really.

Stakeouts aren't really a busy thing, you think, they're more an open occasion where so many things tend to be confessed because bored mouths don't stop making noise.

You wonder if you can still get Pushkin back.

Klaus crawls up, you try to avoid him but get decently knocked into the rustle of items. It's uncomfortable.

"Any luck finding your one-eyed man," his arms rest on the seats, drawling expressions abundant and you pay no mind because the library must be an alright walk from here. You do consider it, greatly, although you stay quiet.

"No," the boy, the one who had to be harsh about everything because it's the nature of his very being, whispers. 

You really do wish he would stop doing that.

"What's he talkin' about?" There is this thing Luther brings into a conversation, your not sure how to describe it, you like it, sometimes you hate it. He never says anything bad enough to make you feel okay, and never anything good enough to make you happy.

Sad. Lots of that.

"Does it matter? It's Klaus." You hate that, you disagree with that, you want to punch him in the face for that. He's not always the best, no one is always the best, but he's there and he knows more than Five does about things Five needs to know about and you morph into a silent statue.

Five turns. Sighs.

"What do you want Luther?" 

There is a purse, it's poignant and you know it's just silence. A silence in which he's thinking about how to phrase it, the ideas in his deranged head. You don't blame him. yOur deranged too and you have to do the exact same thing.

"Um," he starts, it's not a good one. "So, Grace may have had something to do with dad's death."

 _Mom,_ you think, _it's mom._

Klaus, shuffles, gets more comfortable you assume. Five looks, questioning, unbelieving, doesn't give a crap though.

"So I need you to come back to the academy, all right? It's important." He doesn't direct it at you, maybe he means to, but you sincerely doubt it. He talks to Five, he looks at Five, Klaus sits in a way that blocks you from view completely.

You'll be fine.

"It's Important," Five quotes, pissed beyond belief really. Truly, you've never seen such a constant mood in such a tiny person. He doesn't turn, per se, but he looks. "You have no concept of what's important."

He turns now, he knows how to do these things.

"Hey," Klaus pipes in, no the time but they seem to oblige. "Did I ever tell you guys about the time I waxed my ass with chocolate pudding?" He emphasizes words that your not sure should be emphasized.

"Yes," you manage to get out because your still there, you are.

He laughs, it's overt and no one enjoys it. It's like he's trying to breathe on the air and spread the insanity.

You cringe.

"It was so painful, " he spits out, happy as a clam?

You're not exactly sure how happy clams are and if it applies to the situation at all.

"What are you still doing here?" The world, once again in a million times, goes cold and blurry thoughts become clear.

Five, being Five because that's who he always is, looks out the window. His teeth clenched from the brightness of the outdoors, you assume at least. Humans are weird in their reflexed ways, you think.

And then you think about Pushkin.

"Ay ay ay." It's a very 'old man with no tolerance for anyone or anything' thing to say.

You _almost_ laugh.

"I-" he pauses, you shake your head. "What? I need an excuse to hang out with my family?"

Luther is into this and you grimace, again, and again, and a million times more which isn't really enough.

"We're trying to have a serious conversation," his voice is fast, mumbly, adult in a way. It contrasts with the point he is trying to make.

"What, and I'm incapable of being serious? Is that what you're saying?"

 _Hemingway,_ you think, _Hemingway liked this much talking._

 _Hemingway was a little bit of a jerk though_ , you think.

"Luther's got a point, you should get out." Five in all his demanding, youthful, glory, tells your brother to leave.

His brother.

Everyone's brother.

You don't talk to anyone besides your family and the guy and the book store.

"What?"

He leaves, making sure to shout a deftly needed "Fine!" on his way to because you could want or need no less from that occurrence.

The door slams shut.

You are still in the back of the van.

You don't believe that anyone else perceives it that way.

"What the hell are you up to, Five?" You really don't think he wants that question answered.

You stay quiet.

"Believe me, you wouldn't understand." You don't understand, so Luther couldn't possibly.

Well, you so understand, generally.

_Generally._

"Try me." He shifts in his seat. "I mean, last time I checked, I'm still the leader of this family." Luther looks off into the bland horizon and you want to snore. It's nothing, it's blank, it's an empty canvas and you feel so sore it almost makes you say something.

Not about the pain, just something.

"Well last time I checked I'm still 28 years older than you."

There is a pause that you, once again, relish in. Silence is hope, silence is patience, silence is jeopardy. You miss Jeopardy. You used to watch it a lot. Every time it was on you would try your very best to get to Charlie's house, jump into his room and turn on the television he had lying idly on his floor, and watch Jeopardy as if there was no tomorrow.

There was always a tomorrow.

"You know what your problem is?"

"Really hoping you'll tell me." Five 'smiles'. You gag, it's silent but it happens.

"You think you're better than us."

 _He is._ It's an instinct thought, you wonder why you think it. Maybe it's the feeling deep down inside you that Five left because of you because of your a complete idiot and maybe if you had talked to him about something other than useless banter he would've stayed.

He would've wanted to stay.

Your head manages to shut up.

"You always have. Even when we were kids." Five sighs, Luther stares. "But the truth is, you're just as messed up as the rest of us." He looks, almost, unbelievably, hopeful. "We're all you have."

 _He has Dolores,_ you would point out if you weren't actually yourself and you could talk like most people can.

"And you know it." It is the period to the elongated sentence, you feel it.

Five looks back.

"I don't _think_ I'm better than you, Number One." It's too much, your body has melted into the crevices of the van and you slump your shoulders. Darkness blinds your expression, no one is looking at you though, there isn't much point. "I _know_ I am."

Luther chuckles, shakes his head, sighs, acts as he gets it.

He doesn't get it.

Five isn't done, you hate that.

"I've done unimaginable things, things you couldn't even comprehend." He annunciates each letter which a pristine perfection that shows just how angry, just how tragically pissed, everything makes him.

 _You_ don't get it.

"Right."

Five calms.

"Just to get back here and save you all."

It's Klaus who runs out of the store, stolen items in hand(in arms). It's Klaus who dashes and runs away from the man chasing him, black coat flailing in the air like a cape of cruelty. It's Five who questions if kicking him out of the van was the best decision. And it's Luther who stays silent, judging.

It's you, only you, who dreams of days where you don't mistakingly throw away your only Pushkin for a stakeout.

You can see the book, lying there on the damp concrete, surrounded by discarded bags of garbage.

You sigh.

____________

"Hey, Five?" He's been silent for a while. Longer than a while. Enough time that you worry more than you always do. It's important, talking. Five doesn't do hardly enough of it, you think. Or maybe that's just when it comes to you.

"Mhm?" It's a surprisingly soft response, you hardly expected it. 

You think. It's not long, nor is it deep, but you think.

"We should talk." It's your first real statement you've made towards him. Now, despite his careless whisps of scoffs and side-eyes, he notices you. Although, truthfully, it's not like he didn't before. You were there the whole time, of course, he noticed you.

Maybe that was just it.

"About," he queries, not suspicious, not particularly interested either. Just Five.

"Not sure." You pause and Five wonders if it's a bad pause. If this is the pause where it all goes wrong and you leave the van as he had only assumed you would have at this time. "Anything. I don't think the topic of the talk is the purpose of it anyway."

He silently agrees.

You smile.

"Do you like music?" It's a stupid question. Of course, he likes music. Everyone likes music. It has to be a scientific fact or something, you think. And yet, after years of waiting, you ask him if he likes music.

"Depends." He forgets about the van and he forgets about the apocalypse, it's for a moment and he likes it. "It's a big question."

"That it is." You chuckle, it's not an 'almost', and it's not a gesture of hysteria. It's a chuckle. "You know personally, and I understand it's stupid, but I like to turn on the country station and sing along because I think it sounds funny." The statement can only amplify the childish edge you constantly emit.

Five chuckles.

You melt again.

"It's weird." He scoffs at himself and the melting can only increase. "For some reason, the image of you twirling around your room while mouthing the words of _Friends in Low Places_ is the most you-like thing in the vast universe of insanity you do sometimes."

He's right and you're surprised. Surprised that he even manages to make time to think about those things. Of course, you, being you, think about things Five might do all the time. It was almost a hobby when you would sit on that uncomfortable chair that sat neatly next to your bookcase.

 _"How do you deal with this thing?" His arms rested ironically on the sides of the chair. The face he gave you only carried_ _confusion and maybe a little bit of disgust. And yet, despite its simpleness, you couldn't help but save it to your hard drive like it was the most magical thing in the world._

_You shrug._

_"I guess I'm just like superman or something."_

_He chuckles._

_"The superman of stiff old chairs?"_

"Yeah," you mumble. The world goes cold again.

You think he ignores you and avoids your presence. You think he averts his gaze from you because he can't possibly look in your eyes, as if it's not worth it. He loves your eyes. He thinks they might just be the most wonderful thing he's ever seen.

He can't look at them.

"Dolores always told me I suck at conversation."

_Dolores is a very intelligent woman._

"Well," you take a pause purely for the flow of the conversation. "To be fair, you aren't exactly one with words." Five scoffs. "Although you have lovely hair."

Previously, quite logically, he hadn't been facing you. Maybe it was the way the seat obviously faced the window and you were in the back, or maybe it was the fact that you smiled too much for his taste.

He turned to you, raising an eyebrow.

He looks you in the eye and you can't breathe.

"You think my hair is lovely?" The ask is much less highschool and blush covered than it might have seemed. 

He was simply doubting you.

You do, you always have and it's not really a confession of anything. 

You compliment people all the time.

"Uh," the gulp that follows the not-word can only worry the not-boy who is watching your reaction intently. "Yeah. I mean it's all just genes right?"

It's not a good response and Five doesn't get it again.

"Yeah sure. Genes."

He stops looking at you.

You smile and you wonder, actually wonder, if it might be real. Not because he looked at you are because he held up a real conversation for so long. You wonder if it's really because of this very certain feeling of cold rushes down your arms and drips off you like water that doesn't leave a mark.

The music slows to the point where you wonder if it's just flat now. If it's no longer tune and all you can hear is the silent, elongated strumming of a guitar that is determined to continue on until you get another word out.

Five doesn't look at you again for a while.

_"Hey, hey come on, stay up, come on." The words were rushed and spit out like a prayer because you couldn't do anything but the opposite. Maybe the frantic tone of his voice wasn't the stress that you were feeling faint or that your eyes felt heavier than they should've felt. Maybe it was because he knew you were gonna get a lot shit for this and he didn't want you to go through that. "Fuck."_

_No one else would do this for him and that hit harder than he had expected it to._

Maybe you're delirious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choosing the titles for these chapters had been a huge throwback to my vacation playlist, a time when I had no insane schoolwork and ridiculous art projects to do.
> 
> Sorry, it takes me way too long to update.
> 
> I know literally nothing about Pushkin.
> 
> Have a spectacular day!!!!


	12. it happens all the time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then, not-so-miraculously, you're fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apology in advance, I just don't really like this chapter.
> 
> Go ahead then, read my mediocre work. 
> 
> Bleh.

You liked how your feet pattered mindlessly against the evenly placed concrete. It was calming, silent, although quite loud if you listened hard enough.

Small things kept you focused.

It wasn't a hard thing anymore, keeping your mind streamlined. All you needed was a glass of water and something to read, something specific because vagueness gave you this open-ended feeling your head never seemed to accept.

The empty hole grew and you thought back to it.

To the pain, to the pointless conversations, to the hopeful glances that meant nothing in the long run because you meant nothing.

You were fine.

It would be described as smiling.

That's not what you would call it.

_"You should probably go," he means it. "I don't trust any of them to handle themselves responsibly."_

You scoff, you never scoff. The smile stays, it is plastered to your lips and you can't make it leave now. Your life is a funny thing, it's locked in a tiny little box that no one can see, or maybe they don't bother to see.

No one looks.

The pattering becomes louder.

You have this knife. It's not really an aggressive possession, you tuck it under your pillow.

It's sharp.

Well, not too sharp. You wonder how sharp a knife can get.

You think about sharpening your knife.

____________

You are sharpening your knife.

It glints, light reflecting off the grey. You are _entranced._

The metal rod clinks against the blade. It's simple, it's electric and you'd rather do this all day then listen to another word Five has to say.

You have no idea why he bothers you.

You have no idea why the night brings it up inside of you.

You really love that knife.

You think of Five, you think of his inquisitive smile, you think of the way he asked you if you thought his hair was really as lovely as you had insinuated. You think of the way he looks at Dolores and how he stuffs his hands into his pockets and grimaces at every person in a one-foot radius.

The knife glides painfully across the metal rod and you smile.

The metallic noise is nice, and then it is not because it is blocked by something more frantic and repetitive than the metal of the knife and rod clashing together in a smooth streak.

_Gunshots._

It's been a while, you think since you've wanted to truly kill someone.

Your heart pounds against your chest and it's much too fast for healthy.

FIve is still in his van, sitting, occasionally glancing at the discarded mannequin. He isn't thinking about home, about your family, about _you._

He isn't _thinking-_

Your toss the knife onto your bed because your mind is more than a blade.

You run. It's a jagged thing, breath labored because you can't feel your body anymore.

It's impossibly numb.

You can't hear the gunshots after a few seconds. It's like when you're eating in the cafeteria, the talking becomes almost white noise because it's all so constant.

It's the white noise that tears you apart.

Your feet scrape against the wood with unknown amounts of uncertainty. You don't _not_ want to help, you love helping, you are helping. It's a lot of gunshots. You would be safer in your room, you might not almost die again.

You could _die._

You will die, sometime, someplace, maybe in your room. A room, some room that feels like home because you think that's how it tends to be.

You grab the knob of your strangely unfamiliar door.

Your fingers lose around the cold metal, it turns, mindless and silent. You think about fighting, about gunshots, about dying, about killing. About screaming and how it doesn't bother you nearly as much as it really should.

The door opens.

Its quick, frozen girl standing in the doorway, and her brother pulls her along.

Diego's hands grasp your arm and he tugs, you wonder how he knew.

How he knew you were going to open the door.

You didn't have to. you didn't have to be you, not this version. You didn't have to smile and you didn't have to go along with it because Five didn't. He never did. He was there, and brave, and himself when you were no one.

The gunshots return.

His back presses against the door that you just came from, breathing unlike yours. You didn't really do those things, not unless you were scared.

You aren't scared.

He moves, quick as a whistle, dashing forward and you watch. You stand and watch and wonder if it's Five there looking for.

You listened, listened as Deigo's foot came in contact with the stomach of someone you didn't personally know. Listened as Deigo's head forcefully crashed against the helmet that made uncanny valley so incredibly uncanny.

He banged and he banged, the obscure "Cha-Cha shoot him!" not very evident in the conversation.

Deigo doesn't stop and you wish he would. You wish he would stop ramming his knee into the man because it doesn't look pleasant. You reach for pleasant and it never reaches back.

"Get out of the way, Dumbass!" It's Cha-Cha, you can only assume, this time who shouts something edging on vulgar that is still obscured, but much less, by the grunts and hits. She tells him to move, he does, not by choice. by a hit. Deigo's foot, sending him back, back into the wall, back into the reality of it all.

You sigh.

She tries, aiming mercilessly, and then Deigo runs. Your arm, not particularly uncomfortable, becomes it because he grabs you with the force of a grandmother taking her child across the street. You run, he runs, the gunshots run and you want one to hit you, maybe the leg, arm, shoulder, foot, some body part that you could survive and crawl away with.

You like the rush.

_The living room is in view._

A gun, one of their guns, clicks and you know they will shoot again. They do, fast and you can feel it, you can feel how the bullets run past your head because you can know these things deliberately.

 _Right there, to the left, to the right, a little bit up, a little more down._ Radio silence.

You're in the air with no ground below in the foreseeable future before you can indicate if you understand.

It's like flying, it's not flying, but you understand.

_You understand._

Your body hits something soft.

Not soft, but softer than gunshots, softer than pain. 

It's a couch, it bounces like a couch, it looks lie one. You wonder what it would be if it wasn't a couch.

You, as Deigo did before you, roll like you are weightless onto the ground. It's nothing, you are almost weightless compared to your siblings. You're small, thirteen, they are not thirteen and you kill more violently.

You kill blankly.

Deigo pulls you with him. He pulls you against the table that you stood by only a day ago. Maybe more, your not sure, not sure when Pogo had to discuss with Klaus that morning what had gone missing from the office, not sure when it was that you saw Charlie on the street and fell into this spiral.

Dad's portrait emits smoke. It's a delirious thing, the way it seeps from the holes in the established painting. How his stature is not tainted, imagine de-patterned. How you can't help but think he can see you and your brother now, hiding, lawful to the fighting sills he taught you.

He taught you blank.

You love blank.

Diego's grimace is overdone.

He then looks, they are there, you assume. He looks worried, you can not mirror it.

The shots return and you can't hear. Your ears, stinging with unbridled despair, go silent. It all goes silent.

Deigo, to your astonishment, darts his hands over his ears. You feel sad. There he is, knees together, painfully shut eyes trying to block it out.

_Block it all out._

Deigo isn't weak, he isn't strong, he has knives and you assume there enough for him.

You frown and you wonder if it was visible.

Bombs aren't welcoming. Your body folds inwards, a hand that seems to be connected to your wrist is placed on Deigo's shoulder.

Your hand twists his suit in its grasp. Maybe it's for you, or maybe it's for him. Maybe it's for both of you and you've never really seen him like this before.

Everything slows. You know Diego wishes the bullets would run dry and they would stop. It must be something, something buried inside him that makes it like this. Something is buried inside all of you, but this hurts.

You wonder, although maybe you know if this is why you are Number Eight.

Why you are you and you act as you do.

A very hospitable little girl with a toothless smile and a murderous glint in her eyes.

If you had Tinder it would be a perfect way to describe yourself.

You don't have Tinder and the gunshots manage to seep into your bran and melt you until there is nothing left but Deigo and the fear of losing it all.

_Mom._

It leaves you.

The gunshots stop and you can only assume that someone made that happen.

Luther maybe, strength. Allison was agile, you never sure. Klaus was nothing, nothing of importance at the moment.

There is a thump and you feel it drip from your nose like it's nothing.

It happened twice in less than a week and you have started to consider the facts.

Deigo looks, for thumps erupt and your hand reaches up to the spot where something warm and think has escaped you.

Thumps continue, you hear a struggle, _blood._

It becomes obvious once your eyes meet the unbelieving sight. YOu gave yourself a break, your siblings return, Five isn't dead, funeral.

Dead Dad's funeral.

None of these happen to occur now and this must be something.

_"She might die if you don-_

Allison can't breathe.

Deigo, agile in his rushed tendencies, keeps fighting. You are amazed.

How can he?

How can you?

The bile, a word having an effect you would happily live without, increases in the pit of your body. You wonder if it will leave, if Five will manage to save the world and leave again, you alone in this house with no one but yourself and the pictures of your siblings dancing through your head like all too heavy rainwater.

It never came to your mind that you always expected Five to leave you now.

You stand, feet rushing and eyes bulging like half-moons maybe, not full, very rarely full.

You watch, absentmindedly. Deigo is on the man's back his fists his like wrecking balls and he is struggling as well. He tries, and he keeps trying, and soon he decides he will continue because the way he rasps out a 'let her go' is much more than haphazard. He is Deigo, he wants his sister, and you can't help but ask yourself if he would ever do the same for you. IF any of them would ever do the same for you.

Luther yells.

The sound, in itself, is needed. But you take it in, you focus, your eyes turn to well-informed slits. This isn't new, it isn't old, it seems boring because you know none of them will die. Not today, not now, not for a decent amount of time because you can't handle that. _It isn't possible._

Allison can breathe again.

Luther grabs a hold of the masked man, he's big, not as big as Luther, no one is as big as Luther. The way he tosses his through the air with a well-deemed grunt is close to effortless. He's done it before, too many times you think.

The man lands with a distant thump that brings a sigh from your throat to the motionless air around you.

"Who the hell are these guys?" Her breathing is heavy, voice poignant, Luther is out of sight from the doorway. You land a heavy hand on the table. You don't find a need to answer her question, but you know what you might say.

_People with weapons who want Five._

Allison leans with her hand against an interior pole. You like interior poles, they add a certain nuance to a space that you appreciate. The way they break up the edges of the room, especially a large one like such. It's an interesting choice, not everyone has the nerves to deal with making it. You do, if you had a house you would gladly expect the poles. Of course then comes the space discussion, something you're assuming you might lack. 

Everyone's breathing is still unusually labored.

Luther's head spins to the side, the front, to Deigo. "You're welcome," he says, he says as if it's the correct thing to clarify at the moment.

Deigo has a look you don't find rare on him, arm swinging at his side, lips parted, head-nodding like he understands all of it.

"I was doing fine."

"Oh yeah, you really had them-" arm outstretched, finger-pointing.

"Ever head of a rope-a-dope?" The sound of a gun clicking is good enough to abruptly displace the conversation from this current time and you duck like you were never standing up straight in the first place.

It is all strangely reminiscent as you stay low. Your family is different, not really, you have stories, but you think you can safely say they aren't normal.

You _crawl_ to the other side of the room. You could, if thinking normally, just leave down the hallway and try to find a place to hide. Secret. But you don't think normally, and Vanya is home. So you scrawl, and your knees hurt as they patter violently against the floors, and you crawl. You keep crawling for what must've felt like minutes, really was just seconds, you're fast because you're small and it's just easier for you.

No one pays much mind.

You look up, sweat caking your forehead in an unflattering manner. There is, as there has always been, a cabinet in which you think you can just about obscure your body. So you stand, it's quicker than it seems, the balls of your feet hoisting you to your full height as you pull yourself forward. You do every day, you walk, you run, you move. You're used to the strain.

Calloused hands press against the small side of the wooden cabinet with a small tinge of relief.

The walls themselves breathe as the gunshots that rang in your ears cease to exist. The world goes cold, quiet, you can hear your gasps of well-deserved breath, how the fabric of your blazer rubs against your wrists and your arms fall limp at your sides.

For a moment, a short moment, a moment that you revel in because it's just you and a dark house that emits an unnatural amount of aftermath, you are calm. 

The clicks of houses against the steps resonate in your ear.

She calls, she calls for you, for the family, for recognition. You can't close your eyes. She keeps calling, she walks, her calm tone seeping into your head because this is _Vanya._

Your breathing picks up.

"Guys?"

It was like you were sitting there, you could see her, in the corner of your eye. Her bangs sort of fell into her face a little too much, you wondered if it was by choice. She told you once, a long time ago, that she liked you, that she liked how you talked, how you smiled. You told her you liked her two, how she talked, how she smiled.

She laughed at that.

"Guys?"

If someone has seen you, as impossible as it might've been, they would've frowned. 

It's one of those times, though rare when you think might break your dry-eyed record.

You can't look and that hurts more than the way she asks if you're there if you can hear her if she exists. And then, fast, she is in the living room. Not particularly rushed, but inquisitive. 

Hazel, you think because that's definitely his name now, is in the room.

You don't care to try, it seems too much, you might fall, gasp, something because when you become like this it gets harder.

 _It hurts,_ more than a lot of things.

You see Hazel.

He's got something-big something-little something-dark something that he must've grabbed and you must've missed because you couldn't breathe then.

He hits Vanya.

This time the melting isn't romantic and your searing flesh molds into the floor.

She avoids it-momentary-and then he swings with the thing again, black spikes hit her forehead. You want to move- _wish to move_ -and you're frozen.

Blood-not too much-not as much as you've seen escape your own head-but blood.

It was once-twelve you think-she hit her head on a door and the tiniest bit of blood escaped the spot where the forehead meets the hairline. Head wounds bleed-bleed a lot-and you know this because you fight people a lot. Vanya isn't moving.

Your heart stops-quick-and you feel like exploding just about now. You _do_ run because Luther is here now. You think that maybe you went black for a moment-maybe that's why you didn't seem him come. He's here-you're dead-Vanya is trying to open her eyes.

Your eyes search for her expression.

Luther-you know probably fed up with this-throws the man again.

"Can you hear me?" She nods, faint, you kneel beside her. Your hand places itself on her shoulder-you have no say in the matter and it deafens your smile noticeably.

You search for her expression once more.

"Vanya, can you hear me?" It's very faint-you must think-and then she nods. You're glad, disappointed though, he didn't hit her harder when he should've and you know it's really just coincidence. " _You're gonna be fine."_

Your head is hazy. Not it's not like this all the time-it is-you smile about it. It hurts. 

Time passes fast.

Vanya groans.

You hear a thump.

Luther is down, you don't think much of it, but you rush just as well. 

It's the adrenaline of death, the rush of life, the way your brother lays on the ground and doesn't move very much. You jump, not off a ledge, but onto a back. You always thought that being big was an advantage, strong, but now you wonder if it's all just perspective and that your small figure makes it easier. Makes it different, makes it a process of wrapping your arms around his neck and squeezing.

He can't breathe, you don't want him to breathe.

You squeeze harder.

Your legs wrap around his waist, you wonder if he is thinking about prying you off of himself. You would if you were him, but then you aren't, and your hands strain on your own arms.

You take a breath.

You can feel his arms trying to reach you, the small chokes escaping his throat desperately.

He screams.

You don't mind, how the sound rings in your ears and it makes it all go away. You don't scrunch up your nose, you don't smile, you just continue to squeeze off the airflow, you squeeze until you can see the way his hands become frantic, their attempts at making you realize your grip messy and un-fathomed. Your nails dig into your arms, the tips of your fingers turn white, and you keep squeezing, and then you don't find the energy to stop.

Although, you had forgotten that you were still thirteen, and this was a grown man.

It seems simple until it's not and you can't breathe.

His grip, although you had to admit faltering, seemed to be enough to pull you away. You felt the little rush of panic, how you knew it could happen, and then you were in the air. It was a feeling you had felt before, the air stolen aggressively from your lungs, and yet it took you a moment. Your back hits the floor.

You swear you hear it crack.

He looks down at you and you can't tell if he's smiling, probably, but you can't tell.

_You're smiling._

The smile fades quickly because _he is quick._

Something-more than something-it pushes down on you and it's on your neck now-large like a rock. You deduce-not very much thought put into it-that it's a foot, a shoe covered one.

You feel dead.

You can't breathe, it hurts, you can't breathe you can't move you can't scream you cant-

The pads of your fingers scrap mercilessly against the rubber bottoms of his shoes. You push, you push and it won't move it won't let you breathe. You feel _dead._

Your face feels red. Your throat flattens, you can feel it, you feel the pressure weighing down your skin and crushing down harder until you can't think.

Your thirteen and your body isn't capable.

Black, you see it, it creeps up and it encroaches into the corner of your enlighted sight. It's like a million spiders that crawl slowly, painstakingly, into your brain and take it all over. Take away the pain, take away the feeling, take away the emotion because you're blank.

You grasp at the oxygen you can only seem to reach with the very tips of your fingers.

Nothing comes.

You close your eyes.

_Nothing comes._

Your scraping hands go limp and they drift, gracefully, to your sides. The incessant kicking of your instinctive legs stops.

The spiders take it all away.

The weight is gone.

The spiders stay.

____________

When you wake up again, it's inevitable you assume, it's because of a crash.

Maybe it's not crash though, maybe it's another sound. You can't define it because you can't _really_ hear a thing.

Luther, getting up, dizzy, unstable and you feel it not extremely dissimilar to your own state of mind. It hurts, not more than you could only expect, but it hurt and you wish you could tell it to stop. Your stomach hurts, it wasn't that long ago, your not sure how long it takes for stitches to heal but it must be ore and a couple of days. A couple of days is all you can manage maybe it's all you can experience for now.

No one asks you if you're okay.

It's not clarified why no one does this. You were on the floor, you looked just about as dead as you can get when you're a human. No one tells you why it's okay if you don't seem to be breathing when you should be.

No one tells you why.

You wonder if they know why. If they understand.

The angle in which terror your vision is much too Wes Anderson for your own taste.

You can't scream because you can't speak. _It hurts._ It hurts and it might be more than the pain, might be more than the constant ache, might be more than the worn marks on your neck. You can't scream and you can't do why you have to do, what's it your purpose to do. You tell, you tell everyone what's going to happen next because it's something beneficial in a situation where death isn't very far out of the picture.

You know and yet you can't _say a word._

It echoes in your brain you wonder if you'll ever be able to shake that feeling. That feeling that _you aren't enough._

Your father once told you were one of the most adaptive and useful people on the team, not emotionally of course, but you had a certain stance in the group he surely wasn't willing to give up. He only said that once, you believe you were ten, maybe younger, and you thought little of the confession. It didn't matter much, it didn't matter much at all. When you were younger you always had issues with your power.

_You didn't like it._

You still don't like it, but it isn't the same.

Granted, nothing is the same. You straighten your mangled posture.

You see Cha-Cha and you see her anger.

Your father told you it would be slow, painstaking, the most agonizing thing you would ever experience.

Your nose, small compared to one of an adult, become un-reasonably warm. Your eyes water with something that isn't tears. It hurt, somewhat, but it's really just an overwhelming fear that envelops your demeanor as a piercing ringing takes over the sounds in your ears. You shake then, you think you shake, and you shake more. Everyone looks up, no looks up, you shake more. Your body spasms, your hands snap your ears and it's _very simple._

It goes red, then black, then very loud.

Then silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard to write. Procrastination is one of my four major personality traits.
> 
> I think there may be a lot of mistakes. I honestly just really wanted to get this out.
> 
> I appreciate all your comments so so much like actually, yall are really sweet!!!!


	13. this man, this dutiful man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You like being right there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So um, I'm a little late with this, but sure, it's fine, here you go.

You were sixteen-didn't look it or act-but you were sixteen and it was raining.

You jumped around a lot-metaphorically you think-and no one really said anything about it. You cried-inside-for years-and then you felt all too empty to sleep. So as it rained-and the sky was dark-you decided it was best to look at your ceiling. The paint chipped-always had-and your room was still nothing to marvel at. Five told you your decorating style was utterly bland for such a spontaneous acting person.

You-paraphrased-told him to stick a cork in it and he backed off a few minutes.

Sometimes you liked to ask yourself why you were tiny, why you were an idiot, why Klaus was cool and Allison was pretty. Why life, in general, decided to precede when you could not mentally handle the endeavor. Ben always told you it was fine-going to be fine-would be at some point-never was.

Ben was dead-very dead.

Your head didn't hurt.

You read a book- _The best thing about my physiatrist is that he has music magazines in his waiting room_ , it said. You liked the book-not the part about Charlie's departing mental health issue, although maybe you did, and then you closed the thing. _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ was nice-you had no Sam and you had no Patrick. You did-however-have a Luther, an Allison, a Klaus, a Deigo, and a Vanya. 

Luther was stuck up-too much so-and sometimes you found it better to just ignore his presence when it could be done.

Allison looked in the mirror a lot-an inordinate lot-and she never seemed to get anything out of it.

Klause talked about things that you didn't have the capacity to understand-you assumed he meant something of it.

Deigo always told you to be quiet because white noise wasn't taken lightly. Diego's knife almost hit you once.

Vanya played an odd amount of violin.

You kept reading and you thought about training-about you fell down once a few days ago and hurt your knee-about how you have a bandage on it now and how badass you thought it would be if you just kept wearing a bandage all the time and presented it was normal. You thought about _your_ Charlie-the one that wasn't a main character-how he gave you a sweater and told you to dance more because he liked how you smiled when you did it.

You thought about death.

____________

"So, in theory, my hair should be pink."

"Ok, sure, but if your hair was pink you would like a spunky love interest from Jem and the Holograms."

"Is that a bad thing?"

You laughed-tried to mean it-liked how Klaus said things. He liked how you said things too, he told you that if you were louder about your opinions you could be the next Sarah Silverman. You were quite fond of the little patch of grass that part of the property, it was more emotionless than the rest of the house, it wasn't like it had any of your father's insane decorating embellishments anyway.

"Na, probably not."

____________

"Have you ever thought about legally changing your name to Deigo Kinfehands and falling in love with Winona Ryder?"

"No, but duly noted."

"Oh, right, I forgot you just don't have the same spectacular pop-culture head that I do."

Diego raised an eyebrow at you-did that a lot-and shoved your shoulder lightly because that's what half-asleep brothers with his persona seem to do. You knew that once he grew up he would still bet hat way, still him, and his sharpness wouldn't ever really vanish as one would hope. Deigo squinted at you a lot but it didn't mean that he really wanted to be that way, that he didn't get it, because he did.

"I have layers, Eight."

____________

"So can you bust out a Kiss song and blow this idiotically repressed roof off or is that a little out there?"

"I don't think my skills are really up to snuff for that, Eightie."

"Oh right, your fantastic-Oscar worthy-skills aren't up to snuff."

The compliments weren't always true, you hadn't ever watched the Oscars, but you liked how she smiled when you said them. Vanya was very odd and very quiet-so you decided you would be a different sort of odd and talk more than she was willing to. Her room was small, smaller than yours, and her walls weren't as welcoming. Her posture was nice-though-and you liked it better than the walls-better than the bed and the ceiling, the incredibly overbearing floor even.

"I think I might be able to pull off something that sounds a little bit like Space Oddity if that works too."

____________

"Bro hit me up I'm going downtown and hangin' with my chillers."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't know, I sort of just pieced together some slang I heard and now I think I qualify to join that highschool football team people are always talking about."

Luther glared-always told you to be quiet and now he saw as you smaller than ever. He liked you-thought you were quite nice-but your smile was too wide and your eyes were too empty. Luther didn't like Five-didn't hate him-but didn't like him. You hung out with Five a lot. Your references were too obscure and your hair was always the tiniest bit out of place when compared to perfect.

"Just be quiet, okay?"

____________

"Do you think we'll still be famous when we're older?"

"That's not a reasonable question, not really."

She looks very pretty but not too pretty-something else is there. Too much substance inside you-too much-clouded thinking-and so you smile. Allison doesn't ask things from you veryoften. You didn't get the question, anyway though, because none of you are truly famous, not really. Your face is on magazines, Five's name on a million milk cartons, but you're not famous. Sometimes you look out your window and pretend like it would be fine to walk on the street, but you're not famous.

"Gosh, dark, I just think it would be cool you know? For people to know our names for so long."

____________

"Hi."

His statue doesn't really look like him.

"Everyone sucks." The more you focus, the less you can feel it. "I miss you."

____________

_Five minutes of a lifetime were truly spent, and we felt young in a good way,_ the words read-you didn't find them the same after looking over them so often. You would like the book more if the place you read it in wasn't cold and wasn't covered in dusty memories. If your room wasn't painted the color it was, if you hadn't kept the copies of all the books he read to you tucked them under your bed.

The rain makes it softer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I just wanted to build the relationship between Eight and the rest because I don't think I've done too much of that-this was fun-accept my angsty nonsense.
> 
> Also, does anymore wanna comment on how they imagine Eight looks? I know, it's a reader insert, but I'm assuming you have your own idea over how she looks in your head, it would be cool to hear it that's all.
> 
> (sorry this was so short)


	14. it's a shame, i'm a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one dies-not ever-not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a brain break from this story for way too long so here, take this mess.
> 
> I'm still working on that one-shot, just so you know person who requested it.
> 
> I came up with plot stuff today, be proud of me.

You don't wake up on the floor.

It's nice. Everything hurts again. This is fine-you think regretfully because something wet hits your faces like a pile of bricks. You rarely pass out for very long-it's interesting-you were once told that you had such a miraculous recovery time it was almost ridiculously overdone. Although you hit your head, you couldn't help but feel your vocal words turn to mush and the blood that stained your cheeks like dried tears.

You don't remember the pain-and maybe it's one of those things where it was too much for your brain to handle-or maybe it happened so fast you can't really comprehend it.

It did hurt, though, and so you stay quiet.

"Are you alright, Ms. Eight?"

_Am I alright?_

"You hit you're head, I believe."

_Did I hit my head?"_

"You have some bruises, not very desirable, although you'll be fine." 

_I'm glad._

"Can you answer me?"

You couldn't.

You shook your head.

"I see."

Your throat was raw, this kind of raw that only came from moments when the thing itself felt like giving up. Your lips were parted, oddly dry, and you felt cold. Weirdly cold-actually-because the house wasn't always the temperature of its mood. There is a stiffness to your limbs, a stiffness that is exaggerated from the one you might feel when your sleeping position is especially uncomfortable one night.

This is what you had been told it would feel like to be dead.

You are not dead.

There is this hand-one that belongs to you-and it reaches out for something aimlessly. This is when you realize that you are not standing, that you are lying in the same stark operating room that you were in a million times as a child. It's strange, and you feel this sense that something happened here, that something happened and you will never know because people in your life are very secretive.

You grasp at Pogo's shoulder.

_Pogo is speaking to me._

"Can you see me miss?"

_My eyes are closed._

You open your eyes.

"It's alright, miss, _it's alright_."

Your hand is at your side again. Your breathing is heavy now, the lights are bright, the sounds are loud and the universe is all too overwhelming. Pogo speaks slowly, you wonder, you think about how everything is new and everything is ancient at the same time. You think about living, about sandwiches, and inside jokes, and then you think about death and how incredibly dark you remember it being.

"Let me help you up."

* * *

Your scar is lighter.

You avoided Allison and Luther, both of them seemed very angry, and then you put on clothing that was just the same stupid uniform as always, and then you looked at your hand.

Your scar is lighter.

It's not that the tiny fraction of less obvious it seems to be bothered you-that would be funny-but it's weird because you've had it for sixteen years and things don't usually heal anymore after that. So as you walk, realizing how chilly it can be outside, you think about scars and how they are very permanent and very easy to pass by.

There is a lot of people in the prosthetics building.

You know because you can hear them all. Can hear the murmurs of simple things, things like 'need to file this' or 'can't miss that anniversary now can we'. You can hear different things, really not into the thoughts when it comes to just how constipated some tends to be, not into the thoughts about great sex last night was, impartial on the thoughts about how that one guy named Greg is a jerk and deserves to have his testicles cut off.

It's not like you know anything about Greg.

There is no Five.

Not there, at least.

You sit down on the bench in front of the forsaken building.

There is a nice book of poetry in your hand. Well, not just poetry, story poetry, the kind of poetry that tells an elongated tale and is not The Raven because that thing is too much to focus on at the moment. It hurts-a little bit-to sort through people's heads like playing cards. There is a rule your father gave to you, a rule that states you must not do this for too long or you may have a nasty headache in the morning.

You already have a semi-nasty headache, though, so you continue.

_Hey Rachel, it's Steve wanna grab dinner soon, god-no, not that, not like that, she'll think I'm creepy, am I creepy-_

_Yeah, why don't you just make me set up your kid's playdates or something? After all, I'm just a coat hanger to everything, like who treats people like this I-_

_Okay-yeah just make sure to pour it everywhere-missed a spot-fun times-_

You furrow your eyebrows.

_God-smoke-why is there smoke? These fuckers I swear-_

"Five!"

You stand and the building is on fire. He looks at you, wonder why you would be here of all places, and you tuck your book under your jacket because the building is still on fire and you really like reading the thing. The scream, the one where you called his name, came out un-realistically scratchy for someone who didn't almost get choked to death and you stand there in shock of the pain it left within you.

The shock is short like your recovery time.

You're running backward from the building very fast and are feeling very bad for Steve and Rachel.

You're on your back before the red even manages to flash before you.

The dress shirt you wear comes untucked and the small of your back scrapes quite annoyingly against the concrete.

The poetry is safe and your comfort is most definitely not.

"Goddammit, masked dude, godammit freaking home invasion, I hate people-why do people suck so much? They really do, I'm hungry. Do I have food on me? Why would I have food on me? Where is Five-is Five here- why wouldn't he be here? He _was_ just here."

It takes you a moment to realize that you can't talk and the words aren't seeming to escape you.

You close your eyes for a moment.

* * *

"Are you okay?"

You open your eyes for a moment.

There is this part of you that wants it to be different, for you to be actually thirteen and for the world to not be ending like Fives says it will. But it isn't, and you can still smell smoke. There is a pair of green eyes and they look worried-not too worried of course-but worried.

"Yes," you say, it's very quiet.

Five nods.

He looks at your throat for a moment-eyes forming a comprehensive squint-you realize that his hand is on your arm.

"Did the explosion try to choke you or something?"

You smile.

* * *

"Why are you so against drinking?"

"Quit it cold turkey, addiction is hard."

"You suck."

* * *

You read somewhere that romance was stupid-not "stupid", some other fancy word that meant "stupid"-but stupid nonetheless. So, you read Pushkin-Eugene Onegin-a novel in which there are three men and you decide it best to not go into much more. Five notices how fast you read-he always does-and now your speed seems more elongated.

_"But whom to love?"_

Five is very quiet-worldless-but his breathing is heavy and you think it must be too hot in here or something.

_"To trust and treasure?"_

Though it is a library, and you actually find it a little cold.

_"Who won't betray us in the end?"_

"Eight?" It affects you more than it should.

_"And who'll be kind enough to measure..."_

You can't breathe, spine straight, motions to a halt, eyes bulging, breath hitching because it won't enter your lungs and it all feels too real so you can't possibly believe that-

_"Our words and deeds as we intend?"_

"Eightie? Look at me."

You do, eventually. Maybe it's second-hand drunkenness or something, but it's hard to say no now. His eyes are green, the kind of green that isn't trying too hard, the kind of green that sneaks up on you at some point or another and _makes_ you look at it and admire just how secretive it had been for so long.

The air you gulp down wasn't needed.

"I am," you are-maybe you really are-and maybe you aren't mad now. You now realize that you were unbelievably angry with him-you think it must've just been much too easy to hide it-and now you can't feel that rage. Your expression is muted and your fingers are lazy with their hold on the book. Poetry doesn't really express anymore. Five doesn't notice anything.

"Really?"

You nod.

"Well _good then..."_

You think that maybe the drifting pause means he's about to do something that justifies it-he does not-you sigh. His eyes are even greener now, they keep growing, they keep getting closer, and Dolores is still. You think about love-about stupidity-about how stupid you feel right now-about how much you wish Five would admit that he is stupid too.

He presses his lips together-smiles now.

"What are you reading?"

You chuckle at the slurred sounds.

"Pushkin, Eugene Onegin, one of my favorites I think."

He nods too now, he looks at the book, and then he looks at your face with too much focus. When you were eighteen you dreamed of applying for college and having a friend named Lucy who was willing to drive you across the country and push you in front of the cute boy on the bus you always wished about. So now-sitting here-you thought about your dream and how it wasn't nearly as fictional as the look on his face.

"Hm, you must like him."

"Like who?"

"Pushkin."

You furrow your eyebrows-wonder why he says things-wonder why he talks to you at all-and then settle on a smile. 

"Why do you say that."

He doesn't think about-pauses thought-looks at you again and again until you can't imagine otherwise. His eyes are too green now-too green to be any color at all, they were just his you think. Five smiles again-you don't usually like when he smiles-but you can deal with his, can definitely deal with this.

"Because, you were reading that one book when you were acting unusually stubborn and I was very annoyed, you dropped it I think."

You raise an eyebrow-chuckle.

"You are very, very, drunk huh?"

"Oh _yeahhh..."_

You chuckle again-don't retreat your glance-it makes all the difference. 

Five isn't very comprehensive when he's drunk-you aren't when you're drunk either-but you are sober and painfully so. It's different, and perspective can change a lot of things, so when he inches closer you stiffen noticeably. Five chuckles this long chuckle that would terrify you if he wasn't the kid you had lived with for thirteen years.

"Are you scared of me?"

"No, no of course not-I'm not sc-" you look up at him. He's "up" now when he used to be slumped against the wall so you try not to think a lot of it, but he's "up" and even though he's always a little bit taller it feels odd. "Why would I be scared of you?"

He smiles again.

"You just seem it, _I don't know."_

"I'm not, really, and I mean if I was that would be silly even though you kind of look possed when you smile. I mean like, yeah no, I'm not, I'm really not, and there isn't even anxiety here at all, like do you see me? I'm fine, super fine, fantastic and I really like this library actually so it's nice to be here and-"

He's kissing you.

It's weird because you haven't been kissed in a while-and you've never been kissed like this. When you were dating Charlie it was a quick sort of thing-never that deep and never too much because you were fifteen and that's young. Sure, you've watched Dawson's Creek and they were fifteen but you aren't one to have an affair with your teacher so you are surprised, a little exasperated.

Maybe Five just doesn't care.

It's not that you don't want to-you do-but you find the willpower to not take a peek into his head and find out.

There is a hand that grasps at the back of your neck and this is _a real kiss._ It's not the sort of kiss you see on Disney Channel Originals or the ones that little kids give each other in coming of age movies, it's a teen drama that comes on after school kiss that means something more than a peck.

Maybe Five just really cares.

He pulls back and you can feel his breath on your lips.

"Five-"

"I really did miss you."

He passes out you lose sight of the green.

It's been a near seventeen years-you think-and time hasn't ever been very important to you.

_"He didn't die, or lose his reason, /Or turn a poet in despair."_

Your eyes are wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing kisses-love reading them-and don't have the energy to look over this chapter one more time because I'm about to die of embarrassment.
> 
> Tell me what you think plz.


	15. he struck you, a crescendo, annie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night."  
> — Edgar Allan Poe (Eleonora)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if it's really a big deal or not, but I guess there is a super tiny little warning for this chapter. 
> 
> Just like, be cautious my dudes.
> 
> (Nothing in this chapter is literal. I still don't know what I'm doing.)

There is this on-going white noise that fills your ears with the ghost of dread.

"You want a drink or you just gonna sit there?"

It's like you've never heard anyone speak before and these words slither into your brain like a heated rod. It burns, it's loud, and you smell alcohol like it's the air itself. You feel sick. The man raises an eyebrow at you-looks at you like your a girl at the age of thirteen sitting at the bar and thinking about what drink she could possibly order from the red-neck bartender looking at her expectantly.

You aren't actually-a girl the age of thirteen that is-you're a young woman in her early twenties and you have an I.D. that lets you do such things as order drinks.

"Gin," you say-squeaky and idiotic because you feel like you don't do this very often. " _Yeah,_ " you cough. "Gin."

The bartender laughs-you feels dizzy-and the laugh feels all too long for any normal man. He's amused by this, amused by your youth and how your eyes don't' seem to age by the seconds as they should, amused by the way your nose scrunched at the smell and your eyebrows furrow at the setting. You stop scrunching your nose-stop furrowing your eyebrows-and you cough again like once you do it'll all stop.

He's making you a gin.

"Do you come here often?"

You turn because someone new is speaking to you now, it's a likely response and you think about how people don't talk to you because you're quite odd looking at times, and they really just shouldn't try. But this person who looks at you doesn't seem to care about how odd you are-don't find you odd-and they smirk like flirting is their hobby. There is a thing people tend to do when hit on in a bar-it's a delicate process of evaluating the one who's trying to attain their number and deciding whether or not it's really worth it.

You find this one attractive.

"Not sure," you say, try to make it all sound normal. "Don't think so." You press your lips together and realize that your chapstick tastes like strawberries. "You?"

He laughs-you sound stupid-so he laughs.

"Yeah," he says. "I think so."

You like inside jokes, and you like sarcasm, and you suck at flirting but those are a couple of things you always tend to rely on. Apparently. And so you smile and you make a face you might make during chuckle but no noise seems to escape your lips. You think about when you swore that love was stupid and that no one could really love as you do like when you're little and smiles mean smiles.

You drink your gin.

You think about how nice he appears when he looks you in the eyes.

"Your eyes are very green."

* * *

The man spots you again at the bar again a month later and he tells you his name.

"I'm Five," he says.

You tell him it's odd.

"Yeah, well so is Eight," he says.

You agree and don't think about where he got your name from.

* * *

"I really think your boyfriend wants you to talk to him."

"I don't have a boyfriend."

It wasn't a statement-not really-because you didn't have a boyfriend and it hadn't another month since you spoke to him last. You didn't seem to remember how your apartment looked and you had no intention of going home because you didn't think you had a car at all.

"So who's the redhead staring at you then?"

You look back to where Five must be indicating and there is a redhead and he staring at you with an interesting intensity. He's familiar-all too much so-and he's tall and he's got in these contacts that, of course, you can't see but told him to put on this morning because in your opinion they look nice on him. You like the color of his eyes. You like the color of Five's eyes. The man must be your boyfriend because he feels like he would be, he feels like the kind of person you'd choose without really thinking about the guy who flirted with you at the bar two months ago.

"Charlie," you say because it sounds like a nice name. "That's my boyfriend Charlie."

Five furrows his brow.

"He's your boyfriend Charlie?"

You nod and it makes you dizzy.

"So-so what?" He looks at you like he could be angry about this and it would be reasonable. "Are you saying you've been leading me on this whole time?" He scoffs right after the sentence because this all happening dreadfully fast and Charlie isn't looking at you now. He's watching the television with other men watching the television and Five won't take his eyes off you and give you a break because this has to be over now. "I mean, come on? With the whole 'let's get coffee sometime' comment too."

You squint.

"Coffee?" You are very quiet.

"I don't go out with people very often, you know."

He looks oddly sad.

* * *

"So what? This is it? It's over? Just like that?"

The questions overwhelm you and it's very cold. 

You don't reply because you aren't sure who you're talking to at first. It's very quick still, an odd switch in temperature, and a headache that spreads to your limbs until you feel numb. The voice is soft, far away, not how you remembered it being when you were young and Five wasn't in the bar waiting for you to come back and tell him just how right he was. Five does seem to be right most of the time so you look at the man in front of you and think about how much you like his sweater.

"Is what over?"

If this was him-and if this did happen-the man in front of you would be so incredibly devasted by your lackadaisical response to his question of intense morality. You've been seeing a guy for a few months and he tells you he loves you pretty early on in the relationship, you do not say it back, he takes you to the bar because he wants to spend time with you but he needs to vent. You meet someone else at that bar and the guy you've been seeing doesn't notice.

"Our relationship. Is our relationship over, Eight."

You look at him like he's never looked back.

"Well, yes, I think so."

You don't understand why the words were so quickly urged up your throat.

* * *

"You dumped him because I got all pissy over a coffee proposal?"

"Mhm."

You gain some brownie points for that and the world caves in with no seeming responsibility. 

"Idiot."

He mumbles things now. He doesn't seem to look at you like the mumbles actually mean something and he drinks a lot. You talk to him about life and how annoying it is the be single after finally getting used to not be single. he talks to you about how much he likes to drink. He never gives you advice on how to be single, what it's like maybe, even that he feels bad because you can't see it in his eyes that he cares.

"Probably."

* * *

You didn't like making out with people.

It's not that you thought it was weird-though it was a little strange-it was the structured idea that a major makeout session was the only way to have any _good_ sex. You hadn't really experienced _good_ sex because you'd only done it once. It was senior prom and you had made a pact with your best "guy friend" that if you were both still virgins by that time you guys would totally just do it.

There was this kid named Tommy who was super into you and beat your friend to it.

Five kissed you like he knew what he was doing.

He didn't-of course-because he was drunk. You only knew him when he was drunk. This was fine-actually-this was more than fine because you were both adults with no strings. Not really. You didn't have to see him every day and you didn't have to watch him drink. You did, however, have to pay attention to just how close he got to you. Sometimes he would sit next to you, sometimes he would offer to take you home, sometimes he would do both and make his best attempt to get into your apartment.

The first time he actually did something was out of pure desperation.

You think that maybe he was sad, he seemed sad, but he told you that he wasn't as drunk as you were and that he was obligated to assist you. He did. Five had a crappy car and it reminded you of him all too much. You got out of the car and he told you that he was also obligated to walk to your apartment.

You didn't believe him but you smiled.

Five kept kissing you like he knew what he was doing because you were kissing him back.

* * *

"Are you sure about this guy?"

"Yeah, of course, I am."

Klaus is a nice friend-you think-and he smiles a lot. He takes a sip of his drink, this long sip that means more than 'I really just want to get drunk tonight', and he looks at you like he's expecting something.

"You don't sound it."

You have nothing to give him.

* * *

"Got it, five of them, no more than that, right?"

"Yes, five, no more. Can you do that?"

"Can I? What do you take me for, an atheist?"

"Ohoho my friend, let's not controversial with this."

You click off the television and it's oddly silent.

There are these moments when you think that the conversations you can manage to remember we're only a few seconds ago-times when life seemed much more simple and words were direct. It had been a year, you think, a year since he asked if you came there often, a year since you tried gin. He hadn't said he loved you, hadn't said he liked you, hadn't said he needed to hold your hand because it made him just happy and you imagined it would make you.

You think about silence a lot and wonder why it always seems to follow.

* * *

"Honey, sweetheart, person whom I really want to shag before my life ends."

"I reject your idiocy."

You don't-not really-because you keep smiling at him. He's funny sometimes and then sometimes he's a jerk. The funny things happen quick, very quick, so quick that once you blinked he was a jerk again. It was the beer, it was the whisky, it was your irrational hate for vodka and how it made your vision swirl. It made you smile more, made you read minds, made you realize that "sex, money, sex, money, cat," were actually the only things you needed to care about.

" _So,_ " he leans forward, whispers in your ear, lets his hand rest almost violently against the wooden counter of the bar. "You wanna ge'out of here?"

You laugh like it's funny.

"Seriously!"

"Yes, weirdo, _seriously."_

* * *

The first time it's like a landslide.

Metaphorically, of course.

Literally, it was like if you smoked a ton of weed and let some take your pants off. 

Though, that was-practically-what happened. If you had to, you would break it into three parts. First: the weird 'oh the room is spinning' drunk talk. You don't remember much, maybe the odd "God, why do you have four eyes," and maybe a little of, "Are you kidding me? I've got at all three condoms in my pocket at all times." It was just a jumble, you would say, and it had this indescribable stench of alcohol that latched onto it for dear life.

Second: the touching. And when you thought about that you didn't the _touching_ because you weren't as vulgar as someone might expect you to be. It was that one time when he brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. It was that one time let his fingers brush against yours and his skin felt all too hot for 'nonchalant'. It was that one time you thought he was going to dig his fingers into the blanket next to you when instead you felt a thumb swipe over your cheek. 

Third: his eyes. All of the time you spent thinking about it, you remembered how green they were maybe the most. You already knew about them, you already thought about them a lot, but this was different because they were so incredibly close to yours that you swore you could see what they saw. Up close they aren't just pretty-you wouldn't tell it like that-they're like the moon painted its face in order to hide who it was and made itself a billion times more enticing. Your new favorite color was green.

And then-after it all happened and you were all bit a whisper-he told you he wanted to be there next to you in the morning. He wasn't-of course-he was gone and you got this little note written on faint yellow paper.

_Dear person whom I have now shagged,_

_Bet the redhead wasn't nearly as good._

_-Five_

You watched Titanic because the redhead wasn't nearly as good.

* * *

You break your lamp one Thursday night

* * *

You eat a lot of instant ramen in November.

* * *

You sleep with him again in December and he tells you that he's leaving for the holidays.

He says he doesn't know how long he'll be gone.

* * *

It's late January when you see him at the bar again.

You don't say a word.

* * *

Once Valentine's day passes and people kiss each other like it's the end of the world you start to believe it actually is.

* * *

"You're ignoring me," he says.

"I know. It's gotten out of hand," you say.

"Stop, then," he says.

You look oddly sad.

* * *

  
There is this one night in May when it's spring again the world is spinning without vodka. You aren't one to love-he still hasn't told you he likes you-and you walk around on the streets as if someone might say something important any second. No one ever does, of course, because that's just as stupid as you are. It can't be like this, you think that a lot, it can't possibly be like this all the time for everyone.

It isn't, not really, but you smile anyway when Klaus tells you he's getting married.

You're still walking on the dark streets.

"Hey! Hey, yeah you! Wait up!"

"Me?"

"What? No, I don't even know you. Just stay behind, weirdo."

* * *

"Stop, stop pretending you don't know I'm there." It's the first time in months that you've heard him speak at all. You think about how strange it is, about how you don't think he could really ever have anything to say. You want to tell him a lot of things, though, and your lips won't open to let any words out. "I know, okay? I get it. I really get it. We had sex and I didn't call but that's not it, that's not worth it."

You just look at him.

You want to say that it's okay.

"God, _say something._ I mean, come on, I can't just stand here and pretend that I don't care."

_"I'm fine Five, I'm perfectly fine. It's okay, I swear, no harm done, I swear."_

"Tell me what you're thinking!"

Your keys jangle together.

"This is weird," you murmur, it is, it is really weird and you fully comprehend why. "This is weird and I don't get why I have to deal with it right now." Your fingers tighten against the doorknob. You could open it, you could open it and you walk into your apartment and eat some more ramen as if he said ever said a thing in the first place. You could tell yourself he died-that might work-tell yourself that he can't rise from the grave anymore.

"What? How is this weird? People spontaneously sleep with each other all the time, Eight, that's how we have-like-fifty percent of the population."

You sigh.

"You're my brother, and it's weird."

He doesn't breathe.

"Excuse me?"

"You're my fucking brother Five! And I mean, sure we're not _actually_ related, but it's fucking weird!"

He scoffs at you.

"I grew up in Vancouver. My sister's name is Leslie and by the time I was six she had moved out. Are you alright?"

You didn't know that, you thought it was Connecticut, a lady at your work is named Leslie. You don't actually work, though, you sleep and look at words like they mean something other than obscure poetry. You wear a stupid little uniform and do kickflips sometimes because you spent years trying to master your admittedly odd gymnastic skills. You've never had gin, tried a shot of something nasty once, and almost died, but you've never had gin.

There is no doorknob to clutch onto for support anymore.

* * *

There is something odd about the feeling that comes after a dream.

You are empty when you're awake. It's colder outside, and the library is full of murmurs. Some people are talking about you. Some people are talking about Five, too, because he's the one with alcohol in his hand. You don't have any alcohol, just a book, you hadn't been reading it though. Your mind goes empty when you're sad. It happens a lot, so you think about things, then you dream about things. 

Dreams are strange.

For you-at least-they seem to mean something.

But then again, when your eyes are closed you get those 'on a whim' road trips and the closest thing to magical first kisses.

You still have a faint scar on your shoulder. It's not like your hand because you can't really see it all. But it's there. You got shot and the bullet hit this place right where it was close enough to cause distress. Five had been there and when he saw the blood he thought about a lot of things. Five always thought about things, but when you were hurt they tended to be different, he felt when you cried.

_"God, I hope she's okay."_

You were.

_"That must sting."_

It had.

_"Shit, she's gonna pass out."_

You had done that too.

_"I bet that'll leave a nasty mark."_

There was no fear in his eyes anymore so when you noticed he was asleep next to you his hand wrapped yours bothered you a little less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original quote was from Twilight because I thought it would be funny.  
> I then realized that my sense of humor sucks and I picked that random one instead.
> 
> I think about Twilight too much.
> 
> I love all of your comments so very much!!!
> 
> For strictly storyline purposes, does anyone want me to do season two when I finish season one? Because, originally, I wasn't planning on it. Just like, tell me, and I'll try if you'd like that.


	16. (excuse me mister)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're not a fan of ignorance, but Five looks really peaceful when he's sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't actually talked about the songs I use for my chapter titles, and I don't have a Spotify account so I can't really share a playlist or anything(not saying I have a good taste in music), but I started my playlist when I was twelve and the first song on there is Riptide. I hate Riptide now. Vance Joy will never be my left-hand man and I don't know what I was thinking. But, when I'm done with this weird fic I think I'll just list all of the songs in case someone wants to know or anything.
> 
> This one is kinda short.

The overall comedic effect of the idea that you were stressed about _this_ in the library hit you harder than expected.

You never fell asleep. There are a few things you must have for that. There's no book that you've already read a million times (Eugene Onigin stares at you with a challenge in its eyes)and there are no absurd memories of name-calling and shoving shoulders playfully. There isn't sadness there either, sadness lulls you, this bothersome aches in your back only keeps you wide awake. Sometimes-you might argue-that sleeping is futile when it comes to yourself. Sometimes you wake up a four-in-the-morning and look out the window, waiting for someone to wave at you from the ground.

No one ever does, though, so you look often quite sad.

There is this resonating laughter that fills up your ears.

You've realized, a little selfishly, that you've moved away from Five. It's just a foot or so, no contact between you and the boy who's passed out drunk and snoring like the old man you assume he really is, but then it makes much more sense because people are staring and really, "Where are his parents?" You want to know where yours are too, the real ones, the ones that might see a thirteen-year-old girl and feel a little bit of remorse.

The footsteps that approach are louder than normal.

It's two men-two men that you've seen quite a bit of lately. You think about what two men like them might talk about. Death: the amount of it that goes on in one another presence. Depression: just how captivating it can tend to be. Family: the utter lack of it. Love: how neither of them gets the concept, how neither of them understands what it really means, just like you. Not many things-not many nice things-and you sigh.

"Is he-" Luther looks, you look back. He's talking about Five.

You don't want to talk about Five.

Five kissed you.

There is a shiver.

"Drunk as a skunk."

Deigo isn't happy-you aren't surprised.

You cough at the book.

"He's being a jerk too," you say. You sound like a teenager this time. You don't believe that you always sound like a teenager-not like one would expect you to. "Though," you chuckle. "I really don't think that's because of the alcohol." It's a joke-you like to joke-sometimes when you joke it's only to yourself and no one gets the chance to laugh. You like hearing people laugh, it makes certain things worth it. No one does, though, not now. Luther and Deigo are looking at Five-makes sense-makes you sick again.

"Jeez."

* * *

They've tried to kill you before.

Five says that it isn't uncommon.

You sigh.

"I don't get it, Five, why would they want to come after you when all you did was directly betray your deal and go against everything they're for?"

They sigh.

Luther holds his brother and his brother holds Dolores like she can feel the concept of comfort.

Five says something else and your head is spinning.

The ally is dark.

Deigo rolls his eyes.

Deigo is angry.

* * *

"You throw another one of those goddamn knives at me." The voice is old. Deigo's place isn't very warm. "I'm pressin' charges."

He's standing by the door.

"What do you want Al?"

"I ain't you're secretary-"

"Yeah."

_Dynamic, rude dynamic, fatal dynamic, classic sitcom 'this character is actually the whole bit' dynamic._

The old man has a hat. _Al has a hat._

"Some lady called for you, said she needs your help."

Diego walks down the steps, he is no longer standing by the door.

"What lady?"

You huff. It's cold, it isn't warm. You wonder why it's so cold.

"I dunno. Some, uh, detective." The old man(Al) puts a hand on the railing. "I think she said her name was, uh, Blotch or somethin'."

_Luther, Luther-yes-Luther is here. Luther isn't speaking though, but he's here, he's thinking about detectives, detectives he knows-that is none-why is he thinking about detectives?_

"Patch?" The old man looks, doesn't look at Deigo, looks. He is not confused, you're not confused, not really. "She needs my help," Deigo continues-it's a murmur.

_Patch, yes Patch, Patch the girl from his dreams. He thinks about her a lot, you think about how odd that is, you realize it isn't that odd at all. He thinks about her when he's sleeping, he likes her a lot, he loves her maybe, maybe, maybe he isn't sure yet. That's okay. Deigo likes Patch, Deigo tells you he likes Patch but he doesn't want to tell you that, he doesn't say he wants to tell you that._

"She needs you to meet her at that motel, a dump on Calhoun."

_Calhoun, a street, maybe, you aren't sure. You aren't sure because you live in a house that is the street and the only street-the only street you think about._

"When?"

"'Bout half an hour ago." The old man(Al) starts to walk away. You like the old man(Al) and you huff again. "Uh, said she found your brother."

The old man(Al) is gone and names don't stick, not really, so you stop huffing.

Deigo leaves.

You look at Five again- _what is again, anyway, you suppose._

_What did they do to Klaus?_

* * *

"What do you think they did to Klaus?"

"Probably scalped him or something, I don't know."

There is a pause.

"Why are you so pissed?"

You bite your lip-try to not look him in the eyes-it turns out harder than you had expected. He's got a point-you've got a point-the tiny in your voice in your head telling you to forget it has a point. If you were to tell anyone(if you were to be normal once)you think about it being Luther. Incest is an iffy topic when speaking with a dysfunctional group of superpowered siblings, you know this, but Luther looks at Allison like she's the owner of the universe so you consider it.

"I bathe in agony, Luther, and I come out unscathed."

"English, Dickinson."

You sigh.

"Fuckin' end of the world has got me all wound up."

He nods, shifts in his seat, you think about how large he is and how he manages to hold himself up.

You look at Five- _you look at Five_ -he doesn't look back though, and he's still asleep. You ask yourself a lot of questions when it comes to Five, of course, but there are a few more upfront than others. _Is there an attraction, a physical attraction?_ You like to think no, of course, you like to think no. Maybe, when you really were thirteen, and his hair is nice sometimes, but no all your mind can scream. _Is it love, is it really love?_ This forum-this invisible forum that you create to rationalize your thoughts-is demanding.

Yes, yes it's love.

Though it has always been love because when you were incapable of such a feeling, it was a different love, and now it is all jumble. Sometimes, when you're imagining things, you try to justify the feeling. You try to justify insanity and you tell yourself that it's been sixteen years. You say it's been sixteen years and that means something, that means a big enough something to let you love him like a person might love someone they meet at the coffee shop, someone they might meet at the bar. You've never had gin, you think that maybe if you tried gin you could _really_ love him.

"What do you think Deigo found?"

You sigh again, it's closer to a chuckle.

"I like to imagine there was a big sign with the words 'you're brother is a dickhead and we totally scalped him, p.s. Five is a dickhead too' in giant pink letters." You don't sigh, not now, not when you're joke isn't funny enough to make him laugh like you want him to. Your chin rests in your palms. "I know it's a little un-realistic-well, more than that-but I personally believe that sarcastic villains tend to be the best kind."

You're smiling.

Luther presses his lips together.

"Why pink?"

It's a hearty laugh.

"It's Klaus' favorite color."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just watched all of the (My) Immortal Web Series. I think I'm a little late to the party, but god damn, that thing is a masterpiece.
> 
> Harry and Draco have never had more chemistry and that's just the facts.
> 
> I wrote a thousand words of Eight's inner thoughts as she stared blankly at Five and thought about how many ways she could murder him(you know, Edward in Midnight Sun and all), but I cut that out because I chose to be nice. You're welcome.


	17. hey, hey, marry me, archie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constructs are complicated, and as an odd human being, you deny their idiocy. Time passes fast and yet all too slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This book is, and always will be, a self-indulgent piece of crap. So, in order to solidify that claim, I wrote this. Enjoy me stalling the storyline.

Sometimes, when it is quiet, you think about the infinity.

It's big-overwhelmingly so-and when it swallows you fall deeper than you'd like. You speak to him when you're falling, it helps you pass the time. His voice is gravely in the infinity, you think that maybe it's just the vastness of it all, but you aren't ever very sure.

He asks you if you're doing okay.

You tell him it's nothing.

That is the end of it.

There were moments in the infinity, as you managed to float when you would imagine how death could be all-consuming if you let it touch you even for a second. There is an urge-and urge to feel its fingers slip against yours as a lackadaisical sign of _something._ You find nothing, though, nothing but the quiet aging of time and the way it passes you by in this void of your own creation with nothing but a careless glance.

You _are_ the void.

It's a conclusion you came to a long time ago, a conclusion you thought about longer than you intended to.

It's a new name, not Eight, not Eightie, not the girl with the smile. _The Void._ You eat, you live, and you die but never truly die because you can't, not like you want to.

You are handless-everything around you falls from your grasp-and so you fall too.

* * *

Dear Five,

First of all, it's been a week. 

I know it's early and I know it's silly, but it's been a week and I'm very tired. I haven't cried, Vanya asked me if I had and I just shook my head. I don't want to talk about it, maybe I'm just scared to talk about it, but you're gone and it's terrifying. Father doesn't mention it a lot, he asked me why I ran after you though. I told him I was just trying my best to get you back, to tie you down, but that's not it.

I'm lonely now, and I don't want that.

I spoke to Allison this morning. She was talking about something boring and then I just brought you up. I asked what she thought, I asked her if she believed you would ever return. She said yes, said that you were just held up somewhere. Allison was a rarity this morning, and she was shining with that talked about positivity, but I think she's lonely too. I think they've all been lonely, even before you left. That's what worries me, Five, I don't hear as much hope as I used to.

I hope you're happy, and that's not a passive-aggressive thing, I really do just hope you're happy.

With Love,

Eight

* * *

Dear Five,

It's been three months.

I'm tired, really tired, more tired than I've been in a long while. People tell themselves that you get over it, the grief of losing someone you love, but I can't do that. I can't get over it when I saw you leave and when I look at my hand and I remember how you ignored it all. Three months isn't very long, not long at all, and I already hate you. I don't care if it's dramatic, life is dramatic, but I want to punch you in the face _so_ bad right now.

I can't punch you in the face, though, because you've become lost.

I'm lost too, Five, but I still have to smile.

This time I'm done, this time I'm going to stop abruptly bringing you up in random conversation. You don't deserve the screen time. I don't think it's a matter of revenge, not even anger, I just don't believe that it's healthy. this is the best I can do, writing these letters, and I know it's too late for this, but it's utterly absurd.

I'm going to be normal one day, you know, and that's when I'll know that you really are a dick.

Sincerely,

Eight

* * *

Dear Five,

I'm fourteen now. I've been writing these for a year, maybe, a little more I think. Does it help me at all? No, no it doesn't, but I think that maybe if I keep trying you'll come back and can recite them all to you as if you care about me a little bit.

I sprained my ankle yesterday.

My hair hasn't been growing. Father says I'm just disoriented.

To be honest with you, something is dreadfully wrong with me.

Pogo whispers sometimes.

Klaus has been talking to me a lot more lately. I like it. He's really a nice guy, and I know he's a little off, but he's got good intentions. He wants me to be happy, so I want him to be happy in return. We have an arrangement, you know, once a day we'll scream at each other quietly and see who caves first and gives the other a hug. It's like after-school special level therapy and sometimes when I get enough out, I fall asleep on time.

You are the root of all my problems and I love you more than anything.

I'm not crazy.

Love,

Eight

* * *

Dear Five,

I'm not aging.

We found out a few hours ago and I almost cried.

I didn't though, because I don't cry anymore when you're gone. I'm not exactly sure what is, but you bother me, and when I'm bothered the sadness comes out silent. Pogo looked at me with his very serious expression, he gulped and I frowned. "I'm sorry, miss, but it seems that your body is stuck in this state," he said. I asked him what that meant, what 'this state' was, and why it was such a bad thing.

Pogo seemed sympathetic, but I don't really care.

I'm thirteen, I've been thirteen for two years now.

I'll be thirteen for the rest of my life.

Not to sound cliche or anything, but this is literally the end of the world for me. I used to think that maybe if I grew up to be normal, I could leave, and then my life would be just like everyone else's. I could get a crappy job, I could date a million guys that could give less of a shit about me, and I could go to concerts with my purple-haired friend I met in the un-reasonably challenging English class I took on a whim in college.

All I get now is hormones and weirdly proportioned body parts.

Best Wishes,

Eight

* * *

Dear Five,

I've been writing.

It's not good, I would never call it good, but I like it because it relaxes me.

Ben has been dead for a little while. I miss Ben.

I tried to express it. 

_Black, black and red, I see it often and think of you. Smiles fail, your memory is suppressed in stone, I frown. I die, I die because I wish to see you, and when I wake my eyes scan over my room. There is an absence of red._

I failed to express it, though, so now I'm writing this.

This one is short. Sorry.

-Eight

* * *

Dear Five,

I think I'm scared of you.

The concept of you, at least, and when I told Charlie that he looked at me like I was crazy.

What would you think of Charlie? I say it like that because I know you'll never read this, I know you'll never actually get to tell me what you think of him, and I know you wouldn't care much anyway. What is a romance to you? Nothing, a presume. You had always been so strange, strange enough that I didn't dare analyze it much. I think you overlook things sometimes, and though you found yourself near perfection, you are the farthest from it.

Do you feel, Five? I don't, not as I did, but Charlie makes me happier.

I would describe it as generally strong feelings, but then I would be a lair.

It's comfort, I know that, and I am monogamous towards you in the broadest sense of the word. I take the definition lightly, and I have not found a word that would be able to describe the emotions that rush to my mind when I hear your name in a conversation. I think I would die if anyone knew what I wrote in these letters and if they read them all and managed to understand what I'm trying to describe to you.

I might never find that word, but I am past contempt, and that is fine with me.

Respectfully Yours,

Eight

* * *

Dear Five,

_Love?_

No, no, I don't think so.

_Like?_

like

[līk]

VERB

**like** (verb) · **likes** (third-person present) · **liked** (past-tense) · **liked** (past participle) · **liking** (present participle)

1\. find agreeable, enjoyable, or satisfactory.

"people who don't like reading books". "I like to be the center of attention" . "I like all of Angela Carter's stories"

No, not really because 'enjoyable' is demeaning. You don't deserve to be demeaned-Charlie doesn't deserve to be demeaned.

You deserve to be smiled about. You deserve that nice remembrance that dead people get. You deserve people to think of you as that strong little boy who dreamed too big and reached too far because that is sort of what you were(are). We miss you, Five. Of course, no one can show how much they miss someone for very long, it becomes overdone. We don't speak of you anymore, not like we used to, and I think I'm starting to forget.

All Charlie did was watch Heathers with me and talk a lot about Speilberg.

I think he was a better person than you, Five, but that's not what people think about when other people are gone.

You are dead, that's what I should be thinking about.

You died.

Best Regards,

Eight

* * *

Dear Five,

I mourn the loss of myself.

There hasn't been a funeral, three years of loss, but I still mourn.

The sun has started to set earlier in the day.

Respectfully,

8

* * *

Dear Five,

I turned sixteen today.

* * *

Five,

I stopped writing.

I don't know why.

I'm sorry.

-Eight

* * *

Dear Five,

I turned seventeen today.

* * *

Greetings,

I think about you when I fall asleep.

I think about you when I eat breakfast.

I think about you during training.

I think about you when I sit in the courtyard.

I think about you when I eat dinner.

I think about you when I read and the sky is dark.

I think about you when I sleep again.

Sincerely,

8

* * *

Five,

I'm a fully-fledged adult and I can't help but imagine a life with you in it.

We could be two people who met on the street one day and caught each other's eye.

I could be the barista at some local coffee shop and you could be the grumpy young entrepreneur who needs a break from the world.

You've Got Mail could be us, but I doubt my intentions.

I'm no Meg Ryan, and you're no Tom Hanks, but the future keeps its blurry outlook possibly positive.

Love,

_Eight_

* * *

Dear long-lost-brother,

If I had to name you something I think it would be Ethan.

I hate everyone named Ethan.

It's not a choice, it's just a fact.

I'm still eighteen, at least in spirit, and I think that if I had to choose an age to stick at would be this one. When you're eighteen you look young, but you don't look 'Susie's first day of highschool' young like I do right now.

I've been listening to a lot of The Strokes lately.

-Susie

* * *

Dear Five,

I have decided, after an unreasonable amount of thinking, that this is my last letter. I know I'm writing these to no-one, which is arguably insanity in a nutshell, but the self-therapy is over for me. It doesn't help, not like I want it to. I have gone through quite a few things in this time, most bad, very little enjoyable, but as I scribble on this sheet of paper I mostly just want to disclose a few select things to you.

Firstly, I don't hate you.

Of course, it's hard for me to believe that myself, but I can't hate you. I love you, more than anything, I always have. I love all of you, even Luther(he's really tall and I don't like it). So, when I turn thirty and I still look like my favorite band is MCR and my words to live by are Coldplay lyrics, I will just think about how much I loved you as I ridiculed your own name. Aging is an odd concept in itself, and maybe it doesn't matter as much we think it does, so I still wish you the best.

Secondly, I don't blame you. I used to, and maybe that's why I was rude in some of my more straight to the point letters. But, as time passes, and I don't feel like I have the right to blame you anymore. Maybe, though unlikely, it wasn't you in the first place. Maybe I stopped growing long before you left and our father is being transparently secretive, but I don't really care. And sure, I look idiotic in this uniform, and that sucks.

Like, really sucks. I can't even express how much it sucks.

But I'm fine.

Everything is fine.

Lastly, I don't think you're coming back. I've had dreams where you do, fly in on an umbrella and smile that smile you never even considered gracing upon your lips and told me you missed me. You don't miss me, though, Five, and that's simply when I wake up.

With the knowledge I have acquired after these years, I have only come to several pointless conclusions.

You aren't one of them.

Klaus once swore he would leave once he turned eighteen, told me he would love nothing more than an escape, and I don't about that.

Maybe it's the poetry brain speaking, but I don't think anything beyond these walls could bring me greater satisfaction than this sudden and overwhelming absence of change.

With Love,

Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I felt like Eight's feelings might've come off a little blurry. Of course, they're supposed to be a little blurry, but I thought this might help clear at least part of it up. And I know this is weird, trust me. I get that this story is probably the most ridiculous thing you've ever read because, despite the fancy dashes and stuff, this is simply a project of angst and boredom. 
> 
> Though, technically, seeing_blue left a kudos so my life is pretty much perfect at this point.


End file.
